


In the Belly of the Beast

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: before there was red vs. blue there was project freelancer [10]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Psychological Horror, Space Virus, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9365813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: Barely a week after escaping from Project Freelancer, York, Tex, and Delta find themselves trapped on a very different kind of ship. With a virus ravaging the crew and turning them into bloodthirsty monsters, the key to survival may come down to what it really means to be human.





	1. There is no definite end to the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended reading music: [The _Arrival_ soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLmJLxcFH2EHcmMbzpLvugVOynz9TslR_a)

Two days ago York was on the _MOI,_ with the incessant noise and activity of thousands of personnel and engines big enough to power a small planet. With the only community he had known for a few years now, with his teammates, with his best friends.

Now it’s just him and Delta and Tex on this dusty little outpost on Planet V-3578, so far out in the Paris System it doesn’t even get a name. But it was within shuttle range of the _MOI,_ and it’s low-tech enough that tracking them is going to be an issue, so. Here they are.

“All right,” says York, as they step out into the cold light of morning. It’s windy, fine grey dust being driven along the street, skidding against concrete buildings that hunker low to the ground. According to his HUD, it’s -21° Fahrenheit outside. “What’s the plan?” Tex always has a plan.

“Keep running,” she says. “Get to the other side of the universe.”

D is a bright spot in the back of York’s head; it’s hard not to feel like he has a luminous green beacon on his helmet, exposing him for all unfriendly eyes to see. “Not gonna argue with that.”

“And then what?” D says over their coms. “There is no definite end to the universe. There is always somewhere farther you can go.”

Tex shrugs. “I’ll figure it out when we get there.”

\--

They sell their shuttle for scrap, knowing the scrapyard owner is going to be just as concerned as they are with removing any traces of _MOI_ tracking or identification. It’s less credits than York would like, but more than he expected. Tex watches the exchange with the scrapyard owner like a hawk the entire time.

“Where do we go from here?” York asks, as they step back onto the street. “Paris IV? It’s the only planet with any sort of major spaceport –”

D adds, “Paris IV is the only planet in this system with a spaceport that reaches to other systems.”

Tex’s fingers go _tink tink tink_ as she taps them against the armor on her thigh. “All right. Then let’s go to Paris IV.”

\--

They have just enough money to get themselves on a transport ship to Paris IV, and even then it’s because the captain is clearly desperate to just get enough fare to justify the trip. The rundown holds of the ship are half-empty, and the passengers are sullen soldiers, exhausted workers, the occasional hollow-eyed family.

It feels like a ghost ship. York wanders the halls with no one but D in his head to talk to. Tex spends nearly all her time in their room, which he would find less unnerving if she ever took off her armor, or at least her helmet. But even at night, when they’re crammed in back-to-back in the single bunk, she’s still in full armor. It’s not the physical discomfort that bothers York; it’s lying there at night, listening to the steady mechanical hum of her armor, and knowing that while he’s technically right next to another person he might as well be miles away.

\--

 “Agent Texas,” says Delta, one night as they’re about to bunk up. “Is Omega with you?”

D tries his best to sound casual (as casual as he can). York knows better.

And Tex does too, as she goes unnaturally still the way only she can. “Why’re you asking?”

York, sitting on the bed with his hands on his knees, lets Delta do the talking. He doesn’t know much about Omega, but what he does scares him. “Do not be alarmed,” Delta says. “I have no desire to communicate or interact with him.” And it’s the truth, at least for now. “I merely wish to know if he is present.”

“Yeah.” Tex’s shoulders slump minutely as she sighs. “I’ve got him. But I keep him offline. I don’t trust him.”

“A wise decision, if I may offer my opinion.”

Tex looks at him sharply. “Don’t patronize me, Delta.”

“I apologize. I was not aware that I was doing so.”

“You weren’t being patronizing, D,” York murmurs. “Tex is just touchy.”

“Yeah, wonder why,” she grumbles. The subject doesn’t get brought up again until later, when the lights are out and they’re squeezed back-to-back in bed, armor pressing uncomfortably against the seams of York’s undersuit. He’s almost asleep, D little more than a pleasant hum, when Tex says, “Delta?”

His hologram flickers into life, casting the room in emerald. “Yes, Agent Texas?”

“Don’t ever bring up Omega again.”

The briefest pause in his processing. “Noted, Agent Texas.”

“Goes for you too, York.”

“Don’t mention Omega, got it.”

“Thanks.”

\--

The main spaceport of Paris IV is a militarized colony, trucks and weapons and soldiers everywhere. York is glad; it means he and Tex can blend into the crowd. Whispered rumors of Covenant attack are on every street corner.

They have just enough credits for a room at a converted depot. It’s plain concrete and undecorated furniture; York hates it. All he wants is a goddamn cheeseburger but they probably don’t have any food beyond MREs on this entire stupid rock. _Agent York,_ suggests D, inside his head. _You are tired and irritated from travel. May I suggest you rest?_

“I’m fine,” growls York, and yanks his helmet off.

Tex turns towards him, letting the duffle bag that contains all their shared possessions thump to the floor. “Hmm?”

“Not talking to you.” He tosses his helmet on the bed.

“We’ll stay the night,” says Tex, decisive, looking around her. “Then first thing tomorrow we get passage on a cargo ship, head towards the Inner Colonies –”

“How?” demands York. “We don’t have any money _._ ”

All he sees is his face reflected in her orange visor, angry, circles under his eyes, jaw shadowed. There’s a glow of green as D blinks into existence. “Agent York is correct in that there are logistics that must be considered.”

Tex shrugs. “We’ll figure it out, Delta, relax. Ships can always use mercenary protection.”

But York is not appeased. “And then what?” he asks. His armor is hot and constricting and he fumbles to take it off, tearing at the catches. “We go to another planet? And another, and another? Just keep running for the rest of our lives?”

He can see the tension in her body, the way it freezes up. Her blank helmeted gaze on him is almost predatory. “No, not forever, just _–”_

“Just until what?” York finally manages to rip off his breastplate and throws it to the ground, D’s hologram vanishing with a twang of annoyance in York’s head like a plucked wire. “What are you running from, Tex? The Director? The Counselor?”

She tilts her head, sharp, shifting her weight to one leg. It’s not a full fighting stance, but it’s close, and York instinctively clenches his fists.

( _he remembers how she kicked his ass that day on the training floor, his body remembers, the scars on his eye tightening and aching)_

“You don’t know, York, okay –”

“You’re right, I don’t know. You know why?” York’s bracers clatter to the floor. “Because you haven’t told me anything!”

“York –”

“I followed you off the _MOI_ because I trusted you, you needed my help and I agreed because I’m a good fucking person –”

“Oh, please,” she snarls, leaning towards him, “you just wanted to protect yourself and Delta –”

“But I still trusted you!” His shout reverberates off the bare walls, pauldrons and gloves following his bracers. “And now, that I’ve found out you were hiding fucking _Omega_ from me, I’m having a real hard time thinking of why –”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Agent York, that I wasn’t completely open with you about the murderous AI living in my head!”

“Considering what we’ve been through, you should be!” Even his undersuit feels too tight, too close, and he yanks the zipper down his chest, stripping down to his waist. Cold air prickles unpleasantly on his bare skin. “I gave up everything for you!” And she’s still just standing there, tense, hidden behind that helmet – “At least let me see your goddamn face!”

 _York,_ says D, mild. _I would refrain from antagonizing Agent Texas._

But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t goddamn care, anger and fear have been burning him up like gasoline for a week and all that he’s got left are fumes, Tex could punch him in the face and he’d be glad –

Tex reaches up, slow and deliberate, and pulls her helmet off.

It’s not what York’s expecting, to say the least. His mental image of Tex had been someone tough, scrappy, probably with a regulation buzz-cut and a couple badass scars. But she’s… _gorgeous,_ uncannily so. Pearly-smooth skin, crystalline blue eyes, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail messy from her helmet. The lines of her jaw are sharp, her dark eyebrows angled down. Something about the planes of her face looks oddly familiar.

D, he notices, is very much alert and interested. _Delta? What is it?_

There’s no answer, just the vibrant humming of energy as D focuses all his attention on Tex. “There?” says Tex, biting, and now that her voice isn’t being filtered through the coms system it too sounds off, strangely flat and strained. “Happy?”

It clicks, suddenly, all the little odd things he’s been noticing about her.  “Tex…”

“What?” she snarls, chucking her helmet at a bed. It bounces on the mattress. “Is this better? Do you trust me now?”

D’s interest is starting to make sense. “You’re not… human,” York says.

“No shit.”

 “Are you an android?”

Sighing, Tex sits down on her bed, pushing gloved fingers through the chunks of hair escaping her ponytail. “Sit down, York,” she says, and he obeys. “It’s complicated.”

Tex explains, with interjections from D, about Alpha and the AI and the Director’s project. It’s a lot to take in. “Jesus.” York rubs his hands over his face. “So CT gave you all this info?”

Eyes fixed warily on York’s face, Tex nods.

“Fuck,” sighs York, crossing himself reflexively in memory of CT. “And so you… you’re…” Tex doesn’t help him out, just raises her eyebrows at him. “Beta?”

She shrugs. “I like Tex better.”

 _Hello, sister,_ says D, calm and even. _It is a pleasure to finally meet you._

“D says hi,” York relays. “And he calls you ‘sister.’”

Tex waves, with a little wry smile. “Hi, D.”

 “So… so the Director’s memories of his wife were so strong, that they created a whole new consciousness?” says York. “Wow. He must have really loved you.”

One second York’s seated on the bed; the next he’s on the floor, head ringing and vision swimming, a throbbing pain in his jaw. “Don’t you _ever_ ,” snarls Tex, looming over him, “think I am the same person as Allison!”

“Okay,” groans York, “sure –”

His air gets cut off as a hand slams into his windpipe, pinning him to the floor. York chokes, clawing uselessly at her hand. _D, a little help here…_

Delta is, of course, incredibly unhelpful. _I see no problem._

_You son of a –_

“And whatever the Director feels, it’s not _love_ ,” continues Tex, eyes flashing, digging into York’s throat. “Would you call it love if someone created you in the image of their dead wife, expected you to love him, studied you, followed you, acted like he knew everything about you –”

“All right,” chokes York. “I can see how that’s a little creepy.”

 She glares down at him a moment longer before abruptly releasing him and pulling away, apparently satisfied with that answer. Coughing, York massages his throat and rolls into a sitting position. “Jesus,” he gasps. “We all knew you were his favorite, but we didn’t know it was that bad…”

“CT did,” says Tex, quietly. She’s standing with her back to York, head bowed slightly.

Memory clicks into place in York’s mind. “ _Tex,_ ” he says. “You _killed_ CT.” The anger is beginning to resurge; it’s barely been a couple weeks since CT, he was only just starting to accept that she was _gone_ , no more big brown eyes and impassioned rants about justice like the little sister he never wanted.

“I know –”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I thought she was betraying us!” Tex snaps, swiveling back towards him. Her expression is set in a hard mix of anger and grief. “So did you, up until fifteen minutes ago.”

 _Again, Agent Texas has a point_ , D interjects quietly.

Groaning, York slumps forward with his now-aching head in one hand. It’s too much. It’s all too much. “I want a cheeseburger,” he grumbles.

“What?” says Tex, sharp.

“Nothing.” Sighing, York raises his head; Tex is eyeing him cautiously, fists still half-ready. “Look, if we want this to work – if we’re going to survive together – then we need to trust each other. And that means no more secrets.”

Her eyes narrow. “I told you my big secret. It’s your turn.”

“Uhhh…” Fuck. York’s not sure he has secrets, he’s an open book. “I was the one who put the bleach in Wash’s shampoo.”

Tex sighs, head tilting to one side. “York, that’s not a secret. Everyone knows it was you.”

It’s the last thing that should matter at this point, but York gapes at her all the same. “Really?”

Pityingly, Tex says, “Yes.”

“ _Really?_ ” _D, why didn’t you tell me about this?_ York feels betrayed in the stupidest way possible.

_The confidence you gained from believing in your own stealth abilities boosted your performance in the field._

 “Yes, York.” Tex sits down on her bed; she holds herself too stiff, too poised, like someone intensely conscious of their own presence. “So tell me something else.”

 _Your initial assessment that you do not have secrets is false,_ D says. _In fact, a great deal of your life before Project Freelancer is completely unknown to your teammates, including Agent Texas._

Sighing, York scrubs a hand over his face, then props his chin on his fist. Tex is watching him expectantly. “All right,” he says. “I was born and grew up on Mars, in the Olympus Highlands. One of my moms is a high-profile lawyer, and the other is a homemaker but she does a lot of charity work…”

\--

“What do you think I’m worried about, pirates?” grumbles the captain of _The Shadow Line._ “Whole journey’s in slipspace, if something gets us it’s going to be the fucking Covenant, in which case there’s nothing you or I could do except say our prayers.”

“Aw, come on, you might need a couple of expert guns like ourselves.” York is trying to keep his body language as open and non-threatening as possible, the expression on his face pleasant and honest, helmet tucked under one arm. “You don’t know! There’s no telling what happens in space.”

Captain Mercer scowls, hard lines creasing in her face. “If you don’t pay, you don’t ride. No exceptions.”

“Not even for some UNSC vets?”

 _Agent York,_ says D. _I’ve found Captain Donna Mercer’s records. Streaming them over now._

York blinks, mind temporarily going blank at the sudden input of information. “You’re UNSC?” says Captain Mercer.

When York doesn’t immediately respond, Tex answers, “Yes.”  

Captain Mercer grunts. “Let me see your IDs.”

York hands his over, praying the Director hasn’t put out a warrant for them yet. _He hasn’t,_ says D, as Captain Mercer inspects the thin shimmering bit of plastic. _He would rather take care of this privately, if it all possible._

“All right,” says Captain Mercer, returning York’s ID to him. “What about you?”

Tex hesitates, too long. “I, uh…”

“She doesn’t have hers,” York interjects. “She only just got back into civilian space, she was lost during a battle and has been gone for years…”

Thanks to D, he knows Mercer has a younger brother who vanished in battle and is presumed either dead or captured. And sure enough, there’s the briefest softening of her face. “What’s your name?”

 _Lie,_ begs York silently. _Your pride’s not worth it, lie –_

“Allison Church,” says Tex, flat. “I’m just trying to get home.”

York knows they’ve won the exact moment Mercer’s shoulders relax. “All right,” she says, sighing. “Get onboard. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew once we’re ready to take off.”

\--

 _The Shadow Line_ is a decent-sized ship, considering it’s a run-down cargo transport running between Outer Colonies: eleven crew members total, including the captain. “Executive Officer Rey, Navigator Burton, Security Officer Jiménez, Engineer Yakimoto, Medical Officer Jonson, and crewmembers Riegle, Akaba, Bailey, Phan, and McGlyn,” says Mercer, running down the line. “Crew, this is Private Church and Staff Sergeant Elahi. They just came off the front lines, we’re giving them a ride home. Don’t be dicks to them, okay?”

“Hi,” says York, raising one hand in a little wave. Tex, at his side, looks up and down the row.

They’re all wearing helmets and light armor, but from what York can tell it’s a crew of all shapes and sizes. _I have located their profiles in the ship’s internal database,_ says D. _I will download them for your perusal later._

_Uh, thanks._

“You’re UNSC?” says one of the crew – Yakimoto, York thinks, and a woman by her voice and slight build. “What unit?”

“345th.” The name of York’s old unit slips off his tongue so easily it’s barely even a lie. For the briefest of seconds he misses his old dog tags, and faces flash across his mind too quick to even recognize. “Both of us.”

“345th?” says McGlyn, quick and sharp, his posture tense. “Do you know a Miles, Miles McGlyn? He’s my cousin, he’s in the 345th, we haven’t heard from him in a while –”

 _D, quick –_ hisses York.

Miles McGlyn’s record flashes up on York’s HUD. And there, in bright red letters blazed across it, is DECEASED.

“Sorry,” says York. “We haven’t heard from him either. But when I left they were still looking for him.”

McGlyn nods, takes a deep breath. “All right, we haven’t got all day,” snaps Mercer. “Come on, I want this ship out of orbit before it rusts to the planet.”

\--

York does not feel comfortable, not exactly, not when he’s stuck on a ship with eleven people he doesn’t know, and another he only recently got to know in the first place. But as they blast off from Paris IV, the g-forces gluing York into his launch seat, he is conscious of a vague sense of relief, as if by leaving Paris IV he has escaped some unspeakable fate.

\--

Two days into slipspace, Jonson sits down at the mess table unsteadily, liquid from his cup splashing over onto the table. “Woah, hey,” says Rey, steadying him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jonson, but there’s an ashy cast to his dark skin. “Just feeling a little out of it.”

York takes another bite of rehydrated stewed beef, watching the two of them from across the table. D’s already scanning Jonson, looking for diagnostic indicators. “You sure?” says York. “You don’t look so good.”

Jonson flashes him a glance of weak resentment. “I’m fine.”

“Leave him alone, it’s probably just orbit sickness,” says Phan, passing behind them with her own tray of food, and sits down on Rey’s other side. “I never feel great the first few days.”

“Hey, Church,” calls Rey, who is a sharp-boned, rusty-haired wisp of a man. “You’re not eating?”

York looks over to where Tex is sitting at the other end of the table, idly twirling a knife between her fingers. “I’m all right,” she says, with a hint of a smile. “I have a pretty restricted diet.”

“Oh shit, really?” says Rey. “Why?”

Tex’s smile broadens and tightens, and the knife stills in her fingers. “Dietary issues.”

“That sucks.” Rey wrinkles his nose, then elbows Jonson in the side with a grin. “Hey, maybe you should take it up with our medic, huh?”

But Jonson, who is morosely poking at his stew with a fork, does not react beyond letting his torso move with Rey’s jostling. “Mm.”

 _I am concerned about the medic,_ says D. _While there are many potential explanations for his lethargy, the most likely ones indicate some sort of contagion, which could be extremely unpleasant in an enclosed space like this ship._

 _Or he’s not sick, and he’s just upset about something._ York scrapes the last bits of beef and rice off his plate. _Not everything is a crisis._


	2. Always a good sign when the AI gets worried

_I spoke with the ship’s AI today,_ announces Delta.

York pauses in the act of pulling off his boots, getting ready to go to bed. _You what?_

_I spoke with Ship. She was very curious about my presence._

The first of several wrong things with that statement slot into place. _D, how did she even know you were here? Shouldn’t you be cloaking yourself or something? What if PFL gets ahold of this ship and looks at the log and find out you talked –_

D speaks with flat self-assurance. _There is no record of our conversation in Ship’s servers._

_Still, D, that’s fucking risky, like –_

_I assure you, I calculated the risks and considered the benefits to be greater._ D doesn’t sound _annoyed_ , not exactly, but his tone gets even more synthetic. _If we are to be here for two months, I would prefer to have Ship as an ally._

 _That doesn’t –_ The door opens and Tex enters the room, fully armored as always. “Hey, Tex.”

“Hey.”

_You still shouldn’t have talked to her._

_On the contrary, Ship was the one who initiated the conversation._

York sputters mentally, boots clattering to the floor. He’s vaguely aware of Tex watching him. _D, how did she know you were even here? Were you projecting?_

 _No,_ says D, serene. _Agent Texas informed her._

York twists around in his seat on the bed to glare at Tex. She folds her arms and leans against the wall. “What?”

“D says you told the ship AI about him.”

“Oh.” Tex shrugs. “Yeah, we were talking, and she wanted to know if there was anyone else like me, so I figured it didn’t hurt to tell her.”

“You _what?_ ” York gapes at Tex, who takes her helmet off and shakes her ponytail out with a sigh. “Tex, you _told_ her? About you?”

“She knows I’m an AI, York,” says Tex, long-suffering. “She knew from the second I stepped on board. But I didn’t tell her about Freelancer, or the Director, or the Meta, or any of that mess, so could you stop acting like I just breached security protocols or something? Seriously, you’re so dramatic sometimes.”

York scowls in protest, but doesn’t have a good rebuttal beyond, “I’m not dramatic.”

“Sometimes.” Tex starts stripping her armor off, efficient and ungraceful. “Are you going to bed?”

“Might as well.”

Once again they’ve been relegated to a single bed, the only sleeping space left on _The Shadow Line._ York and Tex are still squeezing in back-to-back, but they’ve both stopped sleeping in their armor, and there’s something comforting about the heat that radiates constantly from between Tex’s shoulderblades.

\--

Captain Mercer finds York when he’s in the little rec room, doing push-ups. “Hey,” she says. “You wouldn’t happen to have any medical experience, would you?”

Exhaling, York hops to his feet. “Not really,” he says. “Why? Jonson?”

“Yeah.” Mercer’s mouth is a grim line. “He’s got the flu or something, and he’ll be fine, but I’d feel better knowing I had a back-up medical officer, just in case.”

“I don’t know much, sorry,” says York. Both he and D think of the healing unit in his armor, and neither mention it. “Nor does Church.”

“I figured,” sighs Mercer, and leaves the room.

\--

“Fuck me, there really is a bug going around,” groans Akaba. “Bailey’s got it too.”

A chorus of sighs and curses rises up from the crew gathered in the cargo hold. York is seated on the floor, playing cards with Jiménez, Yakimoto, McGlyn, and Riegle (it’s blackjack, D’s counting cards, if they were playing with real money York would be raking it in). Tex, perched on a crate in full armor, watches them all. “Really?” asks Yakimoto.

“Yeah.” Akaba sits down heavily between Jiménez and McGlyn, running a hand over her shaven head. “He woke up this morning and was all spacey and out of it, Captain’s got him resting in the medbay right now.”

“What about Jonson, is he any better?” says McGlyn.

“Nope.”

“Fuuuuuck,” sighs Jiménez, tilting her head back. “You guys, I swear to God, if you get me infected with whatever _bullshit_ flu…”

“Oh, shut up and deal,” snaps Yakimoto. “Every time you get sick you throw it off in like a day, you have the constitution of a horse.”

“Yeah, well, better than looking like one,” she retorts, and the conversation devolves into petty bickering until Mercer passes by and snaps at them to go do something useful.

\--

 _York,_ says D. _Wake up._

York snaps to awareness, bleary-eyed in the darkness of their room. Tex is awake and sitting up as well. _What’s up? What time is it?_

_The captain has sent a message through Ship requesting the presence of Executive Officer Rey and Security Officer Jiménez in the medical bay. It is 0297 ship time._

“D says there’s something up,” whispers York. “Mercer wants Rey and Jiménez in the medic bay.”

Tex looks over her shoulder at him, the faint gleam of light catching her profile, stray wisps of hair. “Jonson and Bailey?”

“I’m guessing.” York pushes himself up, shoulder bumping against Tex’s. He doesn’t miss how she pulls away from the contact slightly, an automatic reaction. “Do you think we should check it out?”

“Probably.” Throwing the blanket off, Tex bends down to grab her boots. “What’s Delta think?”

_I think there is a high probability of an emergency, and we are better off knowing what is happening than remaining in the dark._

“D thinks we should go for it.”

Tex grunts, pulling on armor. It occurs to York that seeing in the dark must be an android thing, because after three minutes of fumbling he’s forced to flick on the lights to armor himself up. “I fear this is a dire situation,” D says as they head out into the hallway, sending green light reflecting dimly off the walls. “Ship is not telling me much, but she seems worried.”

“Always a good sign when the AI gets worried,” mutters York.

Tex exhales, a sharp quick sound like she’s about to speak, but when York glances at her she’s staring straight ahead, striding forward with purpose.

When they reach the medbay the lights are on, spilling out into the hallway, D hastily blinking out of sight. Three people are grouped in the doorway, dark against the cold white light, and York hears their harsh whispered discussion before he can identify them. At the clunk of boots on the floor, all three turn around, and York sees Mercer, Rey, and Jiménez, faces drawn and tense. “What are you doing here?” demands Mercer, walking towards them, and gestures angrily down the hallway. “Go back to your rooms.”

“I, uh,” stammers York, suddenly aware he doesn’t have a plausible reason for being up. “We heard noises, we wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong,” snaps Mercer. Rey makes a stifled noise behind her, and that’s when York notices the blood.

There’s… a lot of it.

“Oh yeah,” says Tex. “I can see that.”

“ _Leave_ ,” snarls Mercer.

Crimson liquid is smeared over the floor, a trail coming out of the open medbay door as if something had been dragged through it. There’s splatter on the near window as well, and from what he can see, more on the opposite wall. Mercer is livid with anger, Jiménez is scowling, dour, and Rey looks like he’s trying very hard not to be ill. “Right,” says York, wondering if it might be better to leave after all. “Yeah –”

“No,” says Tex, flat.

Everyone stares at her. “Excuse me?” says Mercer.

“I said no. There’s clearly a problem. We’ll help fix it.”

Mercer takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, as if begging for patience. “Look,” she says, “I appreciate the offer, but I am the _captain_ of this ship and you are just passengers, here by my grace alone, so when I give you an order I need you to obey –”

 _York,_ says D, urgent. _I cannot identify any life signs beyond the three officers present._

York’s heart sinks. _So, Bailey and Jonson are…_

_Either dead, or not present. Given the amount of blood, I presume at least one of them is no longer alive._

“No offense, Captain,” says York, keeping his tone mild, “but you did agree to give us passage in exchange for us providing protection. Let us keep up our end of the bargain.”

Mercer’s eyes narrow. “I gave you passage because you’re UNSC vets and I felt sorry for you,” she says. “Not because I thought I needed muscle. Stay out of this.”

“Captain.” Rey steps forward, putting a hand on her arm; his face is bone-white. “Maybe we should let them help.”

Mercer turns her head towards him; their eyes meet, and for a long somber moment unspoken communication passes between them. Finally Mercer sighs in defeat and nods. “Fine,” she says, and gestures for York and Tex to come with her into the medbay. “Watch your step.”

He does so, trying not to get too much blood on his feet, and because he’s being so careful about it he realizes it’s not just blood on the floor, there’s _chunks._ No wonder Rey looks like he’s about to pass out.

The carnage inside the medbay is so, so much worse. There is blood _everywhere,_ spattered on the floor, walls, even ceiling, and in the nexus of the spray, lying in a puddle of crimson in the cot, is what’s left of Bailey. There is no sign of Jonson. York swears soft and filthy under his breath.

“Yeah,” says Mercer, arms crossed, her voice like flint.

Tex says, “So, not the flu, then.” Jiménez glares at her.

“Do we know where Jonson is?” asks York.

“We were just about to ask,” Mercer says, and raps a knuckle against the wall. “Ship?”

The voice that comes from the intercom is smoothly regulated, faintly female. “Yes, Captain?”

“Locate Medical Officer Jonson.”

There is a brief pause. “I am sorry, Captain. I cannot do that.”

Everyone exchanges looks, the three officers pale and grim in the cold medbay light. “Why not?” asks Mercer.

“Medical Officer Tyrell Jonson has removed himself from my internal roster. I cannot access his biometric signature.”

“Shit.” At York’s fervent exclamation, the frowns are directed at him, and he explains, “It’s not just violent, it’s violent _and_ smart.”

Sighing, Mercer braces herself against the wall. “Ship, there are thirteen – no, twelve – people on board. Surely you can count and locate them all.”

“I can do that,” says Ship pleasantly. “Would you like me to read you the crew roster?”

Muscles in Mercer’s jaw flex. “Yes.”

“Captain Donna Mercer – medbay. Executive Officer Vogel Rey – medbay. Navigator Jaina Burton – sleeping quarters. Security Officer Amanda Jiménez – medbay. Engineer Rosalina Yakimoto – sleeping quarters. Crewmember Satya Riegle – sleeping quarters. Crewmember Amnesty Akaba – sleeping quarters. Crewmember Ken Bailey – medbay. Would you like me to update his status to ‘DECEASED’?”

“Yes.”

The only sound is the ever-present hum of the ship’s engines; beyond their little bubble of light and Ship’s even voice, everything is dark, and silent, and still. York swallows hard, his throat pressing against the collar of his suit, his own breath loud in his ears.

“Crewmember Ken Bailey – deceased. Crewmember Leslie Phan – sleeping quarters. Crewmember Joshua McGlyn – sleeping quarters. Private Allison Church – medbay. Staff Sergeant Anthony Elahi – medbay.”

The last cheery note of her voice falls away. Everyone waits, holding their breath, but the empty seconds stretch on. “Ship?” says Mercer. “What about Jonson?”

“I am unable to locate Medical Officer Tyrell Jonson.”

Exhaling deeply, Mercer closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “What about the one unidentified person still on this ship?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” snarls Jiménez. “And I thought the ‘I’ stood for ‘intelligence.’”

D statics irritably in York’s head; because he’s looking for it, he sees Tex’s hand clench briefly. “Captain Mercer,” she says. “I have some experience with AI, maybe I’d have better luck?”

“Doubtful,” Jiménez mutters. “Piece of shit got installed two years ago, we’ve been having issues ever since –”

Mercer’s hand closes on Jiménez’s arm, cutting her off. “Please,” Mercer says, voice taut as stretched wire. “Go ahead.”

Tex steps forward, looking up at the security camera, and places her hand on the wall with what might almost be tenderness. “Ship,” she says. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Hello, Private Church,” chirps Ship. “How are you?”

Jiménez rolls her eyes, but stays quiet. “Not too bad,” Tex responds. “Has someone interfered with your biometric scanners lately?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” says Ship. “Medical Officer Tyrell Jonson removed himself from the roster.”

“I see,” says Tex. “Did he just delete his records?”

“No, he was much more clever than that. He configured the scan so that when his biometric signature is registered, the result is reported as a negative.”

Rey hisses between his teeth. “He made himself invisible.”

“Thank you, Ship,” says Tex, and pats the wall.

“You are welcome, Private Church!”

“Christ,” whispers Jiménez. “Well, it’s not a big ship, there’s only so many places he could be hiding. Let’s wake everyone up and get a search going.”

“Do we know if he’s still alive?” asks York. Even with how eviscerated Bailey is, that’s still an awful lot of blood for one person.

 _You would be surprised at the amount of liquid the human body can hold,_ says D.

_… Thanks._

Rey, eyes hollow, says, “He could very well be dead. All things considered… that might not be the worst fate.”

“Fuck,” sighs Mercer, and pulls the handheld intercom off the wall. “Ship, sound the alarm, wake everyone up,” she says. “I’ll make an announcement. Jiménez, you and Elahi sweep aft, Rey and Church take bow. The instant you find something, radio me.”

“Yes, Captain,” says Jiménez, and immediately wheels around and starts walking towards the aft of the ship. As York hastens after her, red and white lights start flashing, and the wail of a siren starts up. _D, could you…?_

 _Already on it,_ he says, and the volume on York’s external audio feed lowers.

“Any idea where he could be?” York asks, hurrying up alongside Jiménez. “In the vents, maybe?”

 She shoots him a disdainful look. “You really think a ship this size is going to have vents big enough for someone to fit?”

“Look, fuck, I don’t know, I’m not an engineer.” The walls around them cycle through colors with the alarm, red-white-black, and he’s half-expecting something to jump out at him from every shadow. For a moment, York misses intensely the weight of his gun on his hip.

 _A gun on a ship this small would be a very poor idea,_ says D.

 _Yeah, I know._ “Are you armed?”

Jiménez pulls what looks like a pistol out of her pocket, but when she flips a switch on the side the tip crackles with electricity.

“Ah,” says York. She switches the taser off and returns it to its holster. “So where do we start?”

“Cargo bay. There’s all sorts of hiding spots there, if you’re clever.” Her lips press together in a firm line, as tightly as her dark hair is pulled back.

 _I have been tracking the blood on the floor,_ says D. _Any traces are nearly imperceptible by now, but it appears we are heading in the right direction._

_Thanks, dude._

The alarms cease, lights all over the ship flicking on, and York’s HUD darkens automatically to compensate. “This is your captain speaking. Everyone, report to the bridge immediately,” says Mercer over the PA. “This is not a drill. I repeat, report to the bridge immediately, this is not a drill.”

They reach the doors to the cargo bay and Jiménez pauses, gripping the handle of one. With a nod York takes the other door. “Ready?” he asks.

She pulls the taser back out, one hand on the safety, and nods.

In unison they roll the doors open, the clanging of metal echoing in the hold. York and Jiménez both pause in the doorway, watching, waiting –

There’s no sound, and no movement. Just fluorescent light on weathered metal and stacked plastic crates. Jiménez shifts her grip on the taser, edges into the room. When nothing happens, she motions York forward, then signals him towards the left side of the cargo bay. Military hand signals, he notes. She must be a vet too.

 _D, I need you to watch my left,_ York says, peering around a stack of crates. _There’s way too many ways he could get the jump on us…_

_Executing._

Jiménez was right about there being lots of places to hide; not only are there gaps and corners between the stacked crates, but both the walls and floor have panels that can be removed for additional space. _You think they do a lot of smuggling?_

_I would not be surprised._

_Can you run my infrared vision? That might go faster than this. Make sure I don’t run into anything._

D complies, and York’s HUD fades into an array of colors. The majority of the ship around them is dark green, but Jiménez shows up as bright red and yellow, and  York continues to carefully skirt crates, keeping an eye out for any other living body –

_York. There._

He looks where D’s pointing, one of the liftable grates in the floor. And sure enough, there’s a red-orange man-shape in his vision, huddled in a crouch. “Jiménez,” he hisses, clearing his HUD.  “Over here,” and he points down at the grate.

She’s immediately by his side, taser readied and sparking. “Open the grate.”

“Me? Why –”

“Because you’re the one in power armor, dumbass.”

Fair enough. “Jonson,” says York, lightly kicking the grate. “You down there?”

There’s a whimper in response.

“Oh shit.” York immediately drops to his knees, tugging the grate away, and there’s Jonson, curled in a miserable ball in one corner of the storage space, reeking of blood, visibly shaking. Jiménez is on her radio, calling for Captain Mercer. “Hey, Jonson?” _What’s his first name?_

_Tyrell._

“Hey, Tyrell. You with me, pal?” There is a tremendous amount of blood staining the medic’s jumpsuit, it’s even drying on his face like tear tracks, and though York knows this man was responsible for tearing a crewmember inside out, it’s hard to reconcile that with how lost and afraid he looks at the moment. “Hey. Eyes up here. How’re you feeling?”

_May I suggest, Agent York, that this could be a ruse to get you to lower your guard?_

_You may._ “C’mon,” says York, and holds a hand down to Jonson, who flinches away and hides his face in his arms. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“You should,” Jonson says, muffled. “You should shoot me in the head.”

“Nah, no one’s doing that.” York ignores Jiménez’s soft sound of dissent. “We just want to help –”

Visible tremors run over Jonson’s shoulders. “You saw what – what I did –”

“I saw a lot of blood and a dead body, I don’t know if that was you,” York responds, keeping his voice even. “Why don’t you come up and we can figure out what happened.”

“Jonson.” Jiménez stands at the edge of the grate, boots loud against metal, taser crackling in her hand. “Get up. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He flinches at the steel in her voice but obeys, hauling himself up out of the hold. “Stay down,” Jiménez orders, and cuffs Jonson, hands behind his back as he lies facedown on the floor. Something twinges uneasily in York’s stomach as he watches. “Captain’s on her way,” Jiménez continues, taser buzzing menacingly. “You try _anything –_ ”

“I know,” mumbles Jonson into the floor. He sounds like he’s fighting back tears.

D, meanwhile, is cataloguing symptoms. _Initial indicators are dizziness, nausea, lethargy, and pallor, lasting approximately a week. Violent homicidal behavior manifests, but then subsides after no more than a few hours. Signs indicate a viral infection, rather than bacterial._

Sudden fear blooms cold in York’s gut. _D, is this – is this contagious?_

The little pause before D answers is all York needs. _I do not know._


	3. She thinks she's going to die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about space travel have been fudged for the sake of plot

Mercer cuffs Jonson to the cot in medbay (clean, now, all traces of Bailey scrubbed away, the scent of bleach stinging York’s nostrils). Jonson does not resist; if anything, when the cuffs close around his wrists, he relaxes, sinking back into the thin mattress with his eyes closed in a look of profound pain and weariness. Mercer’s face could be carved from stone.

“Akaba, McGlyn, watch him,” she says. “From outside. Keep the doors shut no matter what. The second something starts happening, you radio me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rey, Jiménez, Burton, with me.” Her eyes pass over York and Tex, and she grudgingly adds, “The two of you as well.”

They follow her up to the bridge. York wants, desperately, to be able to talk to Tex and D on their own. _I may have a partial solution to that,_ says D. _Give me a minute._

“So.” They reach the bridge; Mercer seats herself in the captain’s chair, grim as death. “We have an issue on our hands.”

No one takes the opening for snark, not even York; he feels too wooden for sarcasm. “We need to know what we’re dealing with,” says Rey.

“It’s a virus.” The words are out of York’s mouth before he can stop them. “I think.”

Everyone from _The Shadow Line_ stares at him. Tex has her arms folded, gaze bent towards the floor. “You’ve seen this before?” says Mercer.

“Heard… stories…” York waves his hands vaguely. “But yeah, from what I know, it’s a virus.”

“Is it contagious?”

_… D?_

_I can’t tell. Not without access to a database._

“I don’t know.”

“All right, then we’ll treat it as if it is,” sighs Mercer. “When we’re done here, you’re all showering, thoroughly. Throw your jumpsuits out the airlock. You two…” Her gaze lingers over York and Tex’s armor. “Disinfect as best you can, we’ve got cleaning supplies. The medbay’s on lockdown, Jiménez. No one goes in and out without protection and my knowledge. The second anyone else starts showing symptoms, we quarantine them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The other question is, do we wait this out in slipspace and continue to our original destination, or do we jump out and get help now?” Mercer turns to Burton, who has her hands shoved into her pockets, deep sadness evident on her handsome face. “Do you know approximately where we are?”

She sighs, shoulders slumping, and says “We should be close to Groombridge-1830. But they got decimated by the Covenant, whether they even have the facilities to deal with something like this…”

Jiménez leans against one of the consoles. “It’s still probably better than what we’ve got.”

“Debatable,” says Rey. “Also, we need to consider. If this _is_ contagious… do we want to bring this to another colony?”

He looks around at everyone, gray eyes grave and shadowed. Mercer curses quietly. _York,_ says D, speaking through the gloom and dread running down York’s spine. _I’ve established a connection with Agent Texas via our radios. I can relay messages between the both of you._

_Awesome, thanks. Ask her what she thinks about all of this._

Rey continues, “Personally, I…I would rather we all die in space rather than introduce a new plague to humanity. I don’t know what this disease is. But that’s not a chance I want to take.”

“Vogel,” says Mercer, quietly.

He folds his arms, looking around at everyone with glittering eyes. “By the time we reach Ballast, either we’ll all be fine, or we’ll all be dead. We can let authorities know before we ever dock. They can take the proper safety precautions. But if it’s a choice between death and inflicting this madness on a war-torn colony…”

“No offense, but that’s bullshit,” says Jiménez. “You act like our only option is nobly sacrificing ourselves because we’ll automatically infect anyone we breathe on. But you don’t know. We don’t even know if this _is_ contagious. And if it is, shouldn’t we be at an actual medical facility?”

“They could halt the virus’ spread before it gets too bad,” Burton murmurs.

_Texas thinks we should wait and see what happens before we start envisioning ‘doomsday scenarios.’_

Jiménez has a fist clenched on her thigh. “I want to live, damn it.”

“We also need to consider,” says Burton, pulling the end of one long black braid between her fingers, “that even if we do exit slipspace near Groombridge, we’re still in a warzone. Covenant could blast us to dust before we can even signal for help.”

Some very grim looks are exchanged. York hates this, hates feeling hemmed in with nowhere to go. Everywhere he looks it’s potential death.

Mercer bites her lip, taps fingers on the arm of her chair. “A vote,” she says, words cutting through the humming silence. “Everyone in favor of leaving slipspace for Groombridge, raise your hand.”

Jiménez immediately raises hers. After a moment, York follows. He’d rather take his chances on a planet with some kind of medical aid than trapped on an outdated transport ship.

“Those in favor of continuing to Ballast?”

Rey and Burton raise their hands, solemn.

“I notice you haven’t cast a vote, Private Church.”

Tex shrugs, arms folded, as she leans against one of the walls. It’s a jarringly casual pose compared to everyone else’s rigid stances. “Honestly, I think our chances are about the same either way.”

 _She’s an android,_ York realizes. _The virus won’t affect her._

“It’s your call, Captain,” says Rey. “We’ll follow your decision.” Burton nods in solidarity, a brief tilt of her head.

Mercer lets out a long, slow breath; her profile is stark against the blackness of the cockpit window behind her. “Let’s hold course for now,” she says. “Jonson may be the only one affected. And if we are going to die, I’d rather it not be at the end of a Covenant laser.”

The tight knot in York’s stomach squeezes, then loosens. That’s it, a decision’s been made. But that relief has barely passed before his guts are clenching again. They still have over a month on this ship to survive.  

“Right,” says Mercer, standing with renewed vigor. “Rey, there’s no need to notify the rest of the crew of our decision, but if they ask, let them know. Jiménez, I trust your judgement in terms of keeping an eye on things. Let’s get back to bed.” Her mouth flattens into a tense line. “I have a feeling we’re going to need our sleep.”

Rey asks, “What about…?”

“Bailey?” Mercer passes a hand over her forehead. “Talk to me tomorrow about it.”

York and Tex walk back to their quarters together in silence. D is quiet as well, frustrated without any sort of access or connections to the outside world. He wants to research, wants to solve this puzzle, but until they come out of slipspace this ship can neither send nor receive communications.

 _Hey, D,_ says York, hesitant, because D has always been the calm, collected voice until now. _We’ll figure it out. Don’t stress yourself._

 _I am not stressing._ It’s a blatant lie.

_Sure you are, pal. We’re all stressed. It happens._

_I am not like the rest of you._

York lets that statement lie, lets D continue to scour his own internal memories for something, anything useful. The adrenaline is draining out of him, leaving him feeling hazy, sluggish.

Perhaps it’ll all be clearer after a sleep.

\--

In the morning Jonson is still there, looking very much like he hasn’t slept, sweaty and ashen with dark circles under his eyes. Mercer spends a lot of time on the bridge, conferring with her officers. York supposes he and Tex could demand to be included if they really wanted, but neither of them seem to care. He relegates himself to the rec room, forces himself through set after set of pushups, crunches, pullups, until sweat stings on his forehead and his muscles burn. D is sulking, still frustrated with his inability to be useful.

At one point in the afternoon McGlyn enters the rec room, but as soon as he sees York his eyes widen and he starts to back out. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know you were here, I’ll just – leave –”

“No, no, it’s fine.” York manages one more sit-up – _Four hundred and ninety-two –_ and lies down with a huff, abs relaxing with almost painful relief. “I don’t own the place.”

McGlyn remains in the doorway, nervous energy in the way he clenches his hands together. D is analyzing him for signs of pending illness. _See anything?_ York asks.

_No, but I will keep you informed._

“How long were you in the army?” McGlyn asks.

“Too long,” sighs York. He’s tempted to tack on a “kid” at the end, but McGlyn’s barely younger than he is. “Why?”

“Just… wondering if you knew anything else about my cousin.”

Sighing again, York sits up, wiping sweat off his face. He should have known it’d come back to this. D’s already got Miles McGlyn’s profile pulled up, waiting. “To tell you the truth,” York says, “I left the 345th before Miles ever joined. Besides, it’s a big unit. I never knew everyone in it by name anyway.”

McGlyn’s face falls. “But you said they’re looking for him?”

“I…” York stares up at him, at the square-jawed, almost boyish face, the thick shock of sandy-blonde hair. “Yeah. They were, last I heard. I still keep in contact with my CO.”

“Oh.” Relief washes across McGlyn, making York’s stomach twist with guilt. It’s fine, he tells himself. He won’t even know the truth until you get off the ship, and you’ll be long gone by the time he finds out. It doesn’t matter. “It’s just – we worry about him a lot, you know? My whole family. Miles was always kind of… you know. Scatterbrained.”

“Ah.”

“Not that he’s like, dumb or anything! He’s really smart. He’s just kind of… he doesn’t hold on to information, you know? He’s real good at solving problems and shit but his memory’s not so great, he does a lot on impulse, so we all thought maybe the military would be a good thing, he might learn some skills –”

York wants him to leave. “Well,” he says, at the first possible opportunity, “I’m done with the gym, so if you want it…”

“Oh!” McGlyn has clearly forgotten why he came down to the rec room in the first place. “Yeah, uh, sure, thanks, Sergeant…”

“It’s Elahi.” York’s name feels strange falling from his lips; he’s been New York for so long, in so many intimate situations. “No need to thank me.”

He leaves before he has to hear any more about McGlyn’s cousin.

\--

It happens that night. Or at least, so Tex tells him when she returns to their bunk, York having woken up groggy and five minutes too late, D distant and having some sort of conversation with Ship. Jonson was in the medbay, Akaba and Phan standing guard. He’d started having an apparent seizure, at which point Phan radioed Mercer and Akaba rushed in, presumably to try and help him. Except then Jonson had ripped his hands out of the restraints, shattering both wrists, and tackled Akaba to the floor where he’d ripped her throat out with his teeth.

According to Tex, according to Phan, she’d screamed and dragged Jonson off of Akaba, then beaned him across the head with a steel tray. He’d thrown her off, knocking her head into the wall, and disappeared into the ship. She’s understandably fuzzy on the details.

All crewmembers, including York and Tex, are temporarily confined to their rooms. Rey is keeping a 24/7 watch on Phan in the medbay while Mercer and Jiménez comb the ship for Jonson. They find him, at 0923 ship time, D relays to York and Tex. His body is collapsed in front of the door to the engine room, unable to open it without Engineer Yakimoto’s key, though he’d ripped his fingernails to shreds trying. There are no other obvious signs of injury, but he is very much dead. D suspects a heart attack or a brain aneurysm.

In the depths of his mind, where even D can’t hear, York considers saying a prayer for Jonson, one of the traditional ones Mom taught him. But it feels strange, somehow, like trying to put on clothes he wore as a teenager. He can barely remember the words anyway.

\--

“Sergeant Elahi,” says Ship, receptionist-pleasant. “Captain Mercer would like to see you on the bridge.”

York groans and swings himself off the bunk, where he’s been lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, thoughts chasing each other in endless loops. Tex is inexplicably not around. “Great. Tell her I’ll be up in five.”

“The captain does not like waiting,” Ship offers cheerily. It still sounds like a threat.

Grunting acknowledgement, York starts pulling on armor without a clear rationale as to why, other than he doesn’t feel like walking around the ship unprotected. _What are we doing here, D,_ he sighs as he walks out into the hallway. _Why are we here._

D takes a minute to calculate. _There are multiple answers to that question, York,_ he finally responds. _Are you referring to the chain of events that led you here? The practical reasons you chose this ship? Or were you asking in a more metaphysical sense?_

Before York has time to think of a snarky response, they’re passing the medbay. Jiménez is standing guard outside, taser prominent on her hip. But as York slows in his stride, glancing through the windows, he sees Phan curled up on the cot, tears streaming down her face.

“Jiménez?” he says quietly, stopping. She turns her gaze on him, hands clasped behind her back. “What’s wrong with Phan…?”

Jiménez parts her lips, taking a second to answer. “She thinks she’s going to die,” she says at last.

 _Jesus._ York looks again at Phan, huddled on the cot. He’s seen her profile, thanks to D. She’s turning twenty-one in a month. “But she’s not, right? Like she doesn’t have a concussion.”

Jiménez shrugs.

York’s instinct is to offer sympathy to Phan, but even if he could get past Jiménez he doesn’t know what he could give that Phan would accept. He just nods once, sadly, and walks on.

When he reaches the bridge he’s surprised to see Tex there as well, now half-seated on the console. “Careful,” York quips. “Don’t sit on a laser.”

 _This ship does not have laser weapon capabilities,_ says Delta. York supposes it's a compulsion or something. 

Tex is helmeted, but from the tilt of her head he can clearly read her exasperation. “I thought blowing things up spectacularly for no reason was your specialty.”

“Yeah, and I don’t appreciate competition.”

“So,” says Mercer, walking into the room, the doors shutting behind her. “I should have searched you two before letting you on board, I don’t know why I didn’t. What weapons do you have with you?”

York exchanges a glance with Tex. “M6 Magnum,” he says. Mercer doesn’t need to know about the disassembled shotgun tucked in among his few clothes. “We each have one.”

“I have two,” corrects Tex, shrugging.

The skin around Mercer’s eyes tightens; she looks like she’s very carefully considering the words about to come out of her mouth. “I don’t need to tell either of you,” she says, “what kind of damage gunfire could do in this ship.”

 _A stray bullet could breach the hull, causing rapid depressurization and loss of oxygen,_ D rattles off. _Breaching an electric panel could short-circuit systems for the entire ship, taking down lighting and oxygen –_

“No, you don’t,” says York.

“That being _said,_ I am… beginning to anticipate a situation in which those pistols will become necessary.” Mercer’s eyes are hazel, flat like river-washed pebbles. “If whatever this spreads, and we see more cases like Jonson…”

“You’re worried a taser won’t be enough to take someone down,” finishes Tex, inflectionless.

Mercer nods, hands on her hips; she’s standing by the navigator’s chair, facing York and Tex. “I am leaving it to your discretion,” she says, carefully, slowly, as if they’re being recorded, “when to use your weapons. I would prefer no more of my crew die than already have. I would also prefer that my ship remain intact. Am I clear?”

“Very,” says York. Tex nods.

 _Do not worry unnecessarily,_ says D. _As long as I am aiming, you will not miss._

York is temporarily stunned by this admission; whether it’s the reassurance from someone he’d considered to be consummately logical and unfeeling, or the frank acknowledgement that D can, in some way, affect his physical movements, he’s not sure. “Don’t worry,” says Tex, and York has a split-second of vertigo before he realizes she’s talking to Mercer. “I don’t miss.”

Trying to make it look subtle and not like he’s having an AI-and-stress-induced out-of-body experience, York leans against the captain’s chair. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re pretty good.”

“I have no doubt of that,” says Mercer dryly. “That’s all I have to say.”

It’s as clear a dismissal as any he’s heard. Tex leans up and off the console, heading out the door, and York is about to follow her when something strikes him. “Captain?”

She turns towards him as if faintly surprised he hasn’t left yet. “Yes?”

“Jiménez says Phan’s afraid to die.”

“Of course she is,” says Mercer shortly. “Who isn’t?”

“Is she going to die?”

Mercer sighs, sitting down in her chair. “I don’t know. Did she have a concussion? Yes. Is she permanently injured? Hard to tell, since we no longer have a medic. Has she contracted a deadly virus from her interaction with Jonson…?” She spreads her hands out, frustrated and helpless. “I suppose we’ll find out one way or the other.”

“Right,” says York. “Yeah.” And he leaves the bridge.


	4. You think I don't feel the same way?

_York,_ says D, out of nowhere. York pauses mid-chew.

_Yeah?_

_Ship is detecting dramatic fluctuations in Phan’s body temperature._

The rehydrated mac n’ cheese in his mouth seems to lose all taste. York swallows, painfully, and puts his plastic fork down. _Oh._

He’s the only one in the tiny mess hall. “Ship?”

“Yes, Sergeant Elahi!” she chirps.

York blinks, train of thought temporarily derailed. “Hey, uh, Ship? Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course! As long as it does not require me to harm myself or my crew, of course.”

“No, no no no, nothing like that…” York scrubs at his face with one hand, feeling like he hasn’t slept in days. “Could you call me Agent York? Instead of Sergeant Elahi.”

 _What are you doing,_ hisses D. _Do you want to put up signs for the Director to follow us too?_

There is a brief pause from Ship. “I am not sure I understand,” she says. “Your name is Sergeant Anthony Elahi.”

“Yeah, but… Agent York’s a nickname, okay? I like it better.” _It’s not like the Director doesn’t know my real name, D. It doesn’t make a difference._

“Okay, if that is your preference.” Is York imagining it, or does Ship sound perplexed? “Agent York.”

“Thanks.”

_I believe you had a question for Ship._

He did. York clears his throat, staring down at his half-empty tray of orange-yellow noodles. “What’s happening with Phan?”

“I believe she is feeling unwell.” This time there’s definitely something upsetting the pleasant cadence of Ship’s voice. “Security Officer Jiménez and Captain Mercer are watching her outside the medbay. Would you like me to give her a message?”

“No – no, that’s okay.” _D, where’s Tex?_

_Locating her now._

“Is there anything else, Agent York?”

He can picture Mercer and Jiménez, standing outside the medbay, grim of face, while Phan pounds on the plexiglass separating them and pleads for her life. He thinks about the M6 stowed in his luggage, and the macaroni in his stomach churns sickeningly. “No,” says York. “That’s it.”

\--

He meets Tex in the hallway, going the opposite direction; she’s in full armor, like always. As they pass each other she grabs his arm. “Where are you going?”

York sighs and tries to pull his arm free, but she has an iron grip on him, even when he’s in power armor. “Medbay. Why?”

“York. Listen to me.” Tex’s voice is deadly serious and she tugs him over to face her. “Don’t go there.”

He narrows his eyes, trying to see past the reflective orange of her visor. “Why?”

“Because there’s nothing you can do.” There is something deep and almost angry in her voice. “There’s nothing you can do to help, and you know that. You’ll just make yourself upset.”

“Right,” mutters York before he can stop himself. “Because you know so much about being upset.”

Her hand on his arm tightens until his armor creaks. It hurts. “Don’t,” says Tex.

“Okay – yeah, okay, Jesus, Tex, _ouch_ –”

She lets go with a suddenness that leaves him wincing; he can feel the glare radiating out from behind her helmet, or is he just imagining that? “I’m serious, York. Don’t go there.”

 _She’s right, you know,_ offers D quietly.

Frustrated, York pulls his helmet off and turns away, staring up at the grey-black ceiling as if answers will appear on it. “I’m just – we’re fucking trapped here, Tex, and I want to do _something,_ not sit around with my thumb up my ass –”

“I know,” says Tex. Her voice sounds clearer. York turns around and see she’s taken her helmet off too, tucked it under her arm, and she’s looking at York with what might almost be sympathy. “You think I don’t feel the same way?”

“I don’t know what you feel,” York mumbles. “And that’s not, like, an android thing. Maybe it is. I don’t know. But, fuck, even with people, it’s not like I can magically read people’s minds and know what their emotions are, right? You gotta communicate and shit.”

“ ‘You gotta communicate and shit,’” snorts Tex. “Sound advice.” She blinks, and for a second York swears her eyes flash green. “Yes, Delta, I am aware.”

“I just… I know we had that big confession or whatever back on Paris IV, but… I don’t feel like we know each other any better.”

Tex tilts her head to the side, steps closer to York, eyes fixed on his face and lips slightly parted. “Really, Anthony?” she says. “Because I feel like I know an awful lot about you.”

York is neither sure of what’s happening nor entirely comfortable with it. “Can you… not… call me that?”

“You get frustrated with nothing to do. You don’t like not knowing the whole picture, so you’ll fill in the gaps with whatever you can, even if it’s wrong. You’d do anything for someone if they asked you the right way. And,” she says, taking another step forward until she is very much in York’s space, looking up at him with metallic eyes, “you miss being back on the _Mother of Invention._ ”

This close to her he could swear, once again, that her face reminds him of someone. And normally if there was someone beautiful getting up close and personal with him he’d be hanging onto every bit of sexual tension but she’s an _android,_ does that make it weird? And the second she mentions _Mother of Invention_ he’s thinking about North and Wash and Carolina and his buddies from Requisitions and fuck, Tex is right, he misses it _so goddamn much –_

He realizes that it’s been several moments and he hasn’t said anything, and Tex is still staring up at him, calculating, faintly challenging. “Well,” says York, and clears his throat unsteadily. “You’re not wrong.”

“I try not to be,” says Tex, and taps him on the chest with two knuckles before stepping away. “Don’t go to the medbay, okay?”

York feels faintly dizzy, unsure of what just happened. “Yeah,” he says, nodding.

“Thank you.” And Tex turns away, tucking her hair up and putting her helmet on as she walks. D is watching her with the same sort of calculated interest he saw in Tex’s eyes.

She’s about to turn the corner when York calls out, “Tex! Where are _you_ going?”

“Medbay,” she says. “To talk to Mercer.” And she turns the corner and disappears.

\--

Because he has nowhere else to go, York finds himself in the rec room again, doing pushup after pushup, arms pumping like pistons, D counting for him in his head – _six hundred seventy one, six hundred seventy two, six hundred seventy three –_

The alarm wails, red and white lights flashing over the rec room.

“Shit!” York’s arms give out in surprise and he hits the ground with a thud. _D, what is it?_

No response, D’s attention is elsewhere – talking to Ship, York assumes. He scrambles to his feet, wiping sweat off his face with his arm. Armor and his pistol sound like a very good idea right now.

 _Jiménez has turned violent,_ says D as York’s sprinting down the corridor to his quarters.

 _Fuck,_ hisses York, stumbling, and regains his pace. _Fuck shit shit fuck fuck –_

He reaches his room and grabs the door frame to swing himself around, punching on the button to open the doors. _Where is she?_

_Medbay._

York’s heart sinks as he rushes inside, scrambling to put on armor. _Phan?_

_She’s barricaded herself inside. Jiménez is trying to get to her._

_Fuuuuuuck._

He slams his helmet on over his head, grabs his gun, makes sure it’s loaded. _D, I don’t intend to use this, but if I need to –_

_I understand._

_Where’s Tex?_

_Behind you._

York wheels around to see her standing in the doorway, fully armored. Pushing past him, she yanks her duffel out from under the bed and pulls out a magnum of her own. “Shoot to kill?” she asks.

“Let’s see if we can’t get a kneecap first.”

“That won’t stop her.” They’re striding out into the hall now, heavy bootsteps almost in sync. “Jonson broke his wrists escaping.”

_If Jiménez’s symptoms are these advanced she may very well die anyway._

“It’s a mercy kill,” says Tex, calm.

“Don’t call it that,” growls York. “There’s no mercy in death.”

“There’s none in life, either.”

From down the hall comes a vicious shriek of rage and a clanging as of metal, echoing off the hallway. York and Tex break into a dead sprint.

She’s faster than him, no surprise, but there’s not much room to gain a lead. They skid around the corner and head up the stairs to the medbay at the same time and there’s Jiménez, screaming, hair falling out of its twist, beating on the medbay doors with a long bar of metal.

“Drop it!” orders Tex, pistol pointed at Jiménez. “ _Now._ ”

Jiménez turns towards them, eyes bloodshot and wild, froth at the corner of her mouth. With another animal scream she raises the bar in her hand as if to throw it –

Pistol fire rings out, impossibly loud, and Jiménez’s head flings back with a spray of blood before she collapses on the floor.

Ears ringing, York looks over at Tex. She’s standing tall and collected, gun still pointed at Jiménez as if she’s awaiting a resurgence. “Fuck,” breathes York, shaky.

( _something in the back of his mind, not D, points out that he’s seen violent deaths before and he’s never been this affected_ )

After a long, long moment, when nothing stirs, Tex lowers her gun. “I think she’s dead,” she pronounces, voice as steady and even as if she’s asking the time of day, and walks to Jiménez before crouching by the body.

 _C’mon, man, get it in gear,_ York tells himself. Hurrying up to the medbay doors, which are a bit battered but still structurally sound, he takes his helmet off and peers inside. He can’t see Phan. “Phan?” says York, and raps his knuckles on the plexiglass. “Are you in there? Everything’s okay now –”

York, says D, his tone sharp with urgency like York’s never heard it before. _Don’t open that door._

He freezes, hand on the door, still unable to see Phan. It’s not a very big room. She must be hidden in a corner at an angle he can’t see. _Why?_

_Because –_

Phan leaps up in York’s face, mouth stretched wide like she wants to eat him, blood streaking her face and the hands she claws down her side of the glass –

York shouts in alarm, stumbling back, and nearly collides into Tex. She’s on her feet already, gun now aimed at Phan, who’s screeching and scrabbling at the medbay doors, trying to claw them open. “Well,” says Tex quietly.

Swallowing hard, York pulls out his own pistol, readies his grip. “Should we just… open the doors and do it?”

_After Jonson’s initial violent outburst he relapsed to sanity. Perhaps Phan will as well. If she is not an immediate danger, it would befit your ideals of courtesy and respect to give her time to express any last wishes._

York turns to Tex. “Did you hear that?”

She nods.

Phan yowls, like a coyote, and throws herself against the doors. At the same time there’s a clattering of boots from behind them and York instinctively whips around, aiming at the new threat –

But it’s Mercer, flushed and in a jumpsuit not quite fastened up. The second she sees Jiménez’ body her entire face and body harden and still. “I thought so,” she says.

The sudden turn must have upset York’s balance, because vertigo sweeps over him for a moment. He can still hear Phan fighting for release behind him. “Tex shot her.”

Mercer’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. “Tex?”

Too late York realizes his mistake; his whole head feels heavy and slow. “Private Church, I mean.”

“It’s a nickname,” says Tex easily. “I’m from Texas, on Old Earth.”

“Oh, I see.” Mercer resumes her impassive expression, steps over Jiménez to look at Phan. She does not flinch, even when Phan throws herself  at the plexiglass like she wants to smash through it and claw Mercer’s eyes out. “And what are we doing with her?”

 _Don’t mention me,_ cautions D, metallic.

“We thought we’d wait and see if the fit passes,” says Tex. “Jonson had a period of lucidity. Maybe there’s last messages she wants to give to family members.”

“I’ve already gotten those from her,” Mercer says, blunt. “All her affairs are settled.”

Tex quips, with black humor, “How convenient.” But York can’t stop staring at Phan as she continues to fight against the barrier, at her bared teeth like she wants to bite through the windows, at the blood she smears over the plexiglass from her torn fingernails, the claw marks on her own face, her eyes so wild and ferocious it’s hard to believe she was ever once a rational human. _She’s younger than CT was,_ he thinks, feeling sick…

“Sergeant Elahi?” says Mercer, and York tears his gaze away from Phan. “You look very pale.”

There’s a bite to her voice that York knows he should fear, but he’s not sure why. “Well, you know, I’ve been jumping from ship to ship, haven’t gotten a lot of sun…”

 _York._ Delta is worried, about – about York? He must be worried. There’s no other way York can describe the humming in the back of his mind. Tex is watching him too, and York doesn’t miss how her hand drifts closer to the gun at her side…

 _York,_ says Delta again, with real urgency. _Go back to your room._

_I don’t understand, why –_

_Initial systems manifest as dizziness, nausea, lethargy, pallor –_

_No,_ says York automatically. _I mean, I’ll go back, but –_

“Sergeant Elahi?” asks Mercer again. There’s _definitely_ a warning edge to her voice. “Give me your pistol, please.”

Numbly, York obeys. “I’m going back to my room.”

Both Tex and Mercer are watching him like hawks. Phan throws herself away from the window, into the room, with a snarl of frustration. “I think that’s a good idea,” says Mercer, tone unreadable.

Once again, York finds himself walking down a hallway with a hollow sense of doom. At some point the alarms had stopped, returning the ship to its normal lighting and hum of engines. He hadn’t even noticed.

\--

Tex finds him in their room, laying flat on his back and staring at nothing. “York?” she says quietly.

“I’m not going to die.”

“No one said you are.” She sits down on the bunk by him, takes her helmet off. York’s not in his armor, just the undersuit.

“You don’t need to.”

Sighing, Tex taps her fingers against her helmet. There’s a frown on her perfect face. “Phan’s calming down.”

“I know.” D’s been keeping him updated.

“Who knows, maybe she won’t relapse.”

Like everything else on the ship, the ceiling is dull gray. York can just make out each individual stud holding the plates together. It’s very faintly reflective, so he can see a pale blur where is face should be.

“York,” says Tex, and puts her hand on his knee.

It’s the first time she’s voluntarily touched him since she choked him on Paris IV. York freezes, attention now focused on her, something strange and sharp jumping in his stomach. “You’re not going to die,” she continues. “I’m not letting that happen. D’s not letting that happen.”

After a few moments, he manages to croak, “Why?”

“Because you’re on my team.” The side of her mouth pulls up in a wry smile. “And you never abandon your team.”


	5. It would be entirely for your own good

York’s always considered “healing unit” to be a bit of a generalization. Really, what it does (according to D) is promote cellular regeneration, helping to heal, or at least stabilize, wounds inflicted on the wearer. It has some limited capacity for storing and administering medication as well; generally York keeps it stocked with pain and anti-nausea meds, as the most practical options.

But the healing unit doesn’t do jack-shit for repairing old or complex injuries. York would know. He’s tried. And it’s hard to have a general anti-bacterial or anti-viral that’s actually effective, because science.

So, the point of all this is – “The unit can perhaps mitigate some of the initial symptoms,” D says, glowing green on York’s shoulder. “But it is purely a temporary measure.” There is the slightest pause in his even voice. “I cannot say how temporary.”

“Five minutes are better than none,” mutters York. It doesn’t feel like a death sentence, still. There’ll be some miracle. He’ll be fine.

Tex is staring at D with an intensity that makes York think they’re communicating silently, AI to AI. Short-link radio, according to D.

“Are you going to tell York that?” says Tex, apropos of nothing, one eyebrow raised.

“Tell me what?” York looks from D to Tex and back again. “What, D?”

D sighs, a tinny, crackling sound. “In the event that the virus progresses, it is possible that I could take control of your motor functions to prevent you from causing harm to others.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Jesus, York didn’t even _think_ of that. “That’s… good.” It is. He means that. Though the idea of D having control of his body makes his stomach twist in funny knots. He trusts D to be in his head by now, but physical control is a whole other level…

 _I know,_ says D, hesitant.

York blinks down at his hands on his knees, attention focused inward. _You know what?_

 _I know the prospect worries you. I assure you, it is not a process I would ever attempt unless I believed the need to be dire._ There’s something in D’s voice York’s never heard before; he’d be tempted to call it vulnerability if he didn’t know better. _It would be entirely for your own good._

 _Well, that’s… that’s great, pal, thanks._ York doesn’t know whether to be touched or terrified, and settles on a bit of both. Unbidden, the mental image of Phan clawing at the plexiglass comes to mind, and he suppresses a shudder. It looks like either way, he’s losing his bodily autonomy. _You’re not going to like… scramble my mind or anything, right?_

 _Not if I can help it._ There is a hint of dry humor to D’s tone, possibly the first humor York’s ever heard from him, and that, more than anything else, is what reassures him.

\--

D tells him the next morning, when he wakes up. Phan went violent again during the night and Mercer shot her in the head. She still has his pistol.

“I want my gun back,” York demands, walking into the bridge.

Mercer, who was in the middle of a heated conversation with Rey, Burton, and Yakimoto, swivels around halfway in her chair to glare at York. “No. Keep your helmet on.”

He notices that the other three officers all have surgical masks on, and gloves. Mercer doesn’t. “Please?”

“No. Captain’s orders.” And she turns her back on him.

Over the mask, Rey’s eyes are sympathetic, at least. “You understand why that would be a risk, right?” he says, voice muffled slightly. “If you do succumb, and have access to weapons…”

“Private Church still has her guns, and we share a room,” York points out. It’s not until the words leave his mouth that he realizes that may not have been the best thing to say.

“Well, Phan and Akaba shared a room, so you can stay in theirs.” The tone of Mercer’s voice makes it clear he is dismissed.

York might be many things, but he knows when he’s lost a battle. He leaves.

\--

For all that he’s been feeling tired and sluggish, York cannot get to sleep that night. The bed feels cold, empty, and he knows exactly what he’s missing and refuses to acknowledge it. _D,_ he grumbles, turning onto his side, too much space and nothing to brace himself against. _Can’t you make me fall asleep or something?_

_The healing pack is not currently equipped with sedatives._

_Yes, I know, but… I don’t know. Brain waves, or something. Meditation._

_That is not something I am familiar with,_ says D. _However…_

And then a low, rhythmic hum starts pulsing in the back of York’s head, not obtrusive, like waves on a shore. It catches on the edges of his consciousness, and at first he resists instinctively. But the soft, steady beat continues, urging him in, until he slips under into darkness.

\--

York wakes with a start, too aware of his own breathing in the empty room (Phan and Akaba’s possessions already packed into lockers). The only thing keeping his surroundings from pitch darkness is the faint glow of emergency lighting. He reaches out to D instinctively for information.

In a strange reversal, D is waking up after him; he doesn’t sleep, really, but he’ll pull back from York, go into hibernation sometimes. York’s had nights sleeping while D was full active, and the dreams that resulted were something else. _What is it, Agent York?_

_There’s no – no alerts from Ship, or anything?_

D pauses, and York imagines he almost feel him reaching out to Ship. _Nothing urgent,_ he finally says. _Ship is concerned about Burton, she may be displaying symptoms._

Sighing, York closes his eyes and lets his head thump back on the pillow. Well, fuck, there goes the navigator. At the moment, though, his primary emotion is annoyance that he woke up for no apparent reason…

Outside his door, something makes a scratching noise, quiet but distinct.

York freezes, staring at the closed door, adrenaline flooding his veins. It sounds like an animal clawing at his door, trying to get in, except _they don’t have animals in space…_

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, D is running increasingly worried calculations. _York, I am not confident in Ship’s capability to give accurate reports, there is something not quite right about her that I am attempting to identify –_

 _Oh, fuck,_ curses York softly. _Can this virus infect AI?_

D’s response comes quick and flat. _It is not that kind of virus._

Again, scratching at the door. York sits up, starts pulling on his armor, and oh _God_ does he wish he had his gun right now – _D,_ he hisses, an instinctual whisper. _Talk to Tex. Tell her to get here ASAP._

_Executing._

_Do you know who’s outside?_

A pause, while York frantically buckles on his greaves and can feel every beat of his heart, every mechanical tick in the back of his head. _Ship does not know,_ says D.

There’s no reason she shouldn’t. Jonson might have been able to change the ship’s medical records, but the only other people with that kind of access are Mercer and Rey, and…

_The only crewmember unaccounted for is Riegle._

York brings Riegle to mind; she’s small, wiry, short-haired, and has some kind of martial arts training – he saw her sparring with Rey at one point with quarter-staffs. She’ll be faster than him, but with the power armor he’s easily stronger. _D,_ he says, and puts his helmet on, HUD lighting up green with night vision. _What’s the plan?_

_You can either remain here and wait for Riegle to move on, or leave cover and attempt to disable her._

Considering his options, York asks, _What’s the likelihood she’ll move on?_

_If given no obvious prey? Sixty-three point seven percent._

_But then she might attack someone else._

_The chances of that are extremely high._

Sighing, York gets to his feet. _Well, then it looks like we know what to do, don’t we?_

D does not answer, but he doesn’t disagree either. Fists clenching, York steps towards the door, weighing his options. He doesn’t have any restraints on him, or sedatives. Knocking her out would disable her, but also cause permanent brain injury. Then again, her mind’s already gone…

_D, did you alert Mercer?_

_Affirmative._

Though listening intently, he can’t hear any more scratching. _Texas is on her way, she says not to wait for her,_ D relays.

Taking a deep breath, York opens the door –

– onto an empty hallway.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

He switches from night to heat vision briefly, but there’s no glimpse of Riegle. [ALLY APPROACHING] reads his display, and there’s Tex running up on York’s right, gun in hand. “Where is she?” Tex hisses.

“Must have gone that way,” says York, nodding to the other side of the hallway, and they head down in tandem as quickly as they can while being stealthy. “Do you have my gun?”

“Nope.”

Fuck it. Can’t be helped. _D, why isn’t ship sounding the alarm?_

_I am trying to ascertain that._

One of the doors they passed opens, and York jumps, whirling around automatically so the movement isn’t in his blind spot. It’s McGlyn, coming out of his quarters, square face drawn and tense. “Couldn’t sleep, I heard footsteps,” he hisses. “Is someone else going rabid?”

York blinks at the unfamiliar term. “What?”

“You know, all bloodthirsty and savage and –” McGlyn mimes biting, eyes stretched wide. “Who is it this time?”

_‘Rabid’ is derived from the term ‘rabies,’ a disease once prevalent on Old Earth before its eradication in the 22 nd century. Sufferers would –_

_Not now, D._ “Go back to your quarters.”

McGlyn snorts. “You’re not captain, you can’t give me orders.” There’s a short knife in his hand; he gives it an expert twirl. “Who’s gone rabid?”

Gun held at her side, Tex takes a step forward. “Look, McGlyn –”

From within the ship comes a guttural scream of pain.

They all take off running ( _again,_ York thinks, _just like a few nights ago,_ and for a split second he’s terrified he’ll spend the rest of his life sprinting down endless corridors). The thought pounds in his head, _who’s dead this time, who’s blood will it be, who will Tex shoot –_

More screams, reverberating in the metal halls. Up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest, onto the bridge –

Riegle is crouched over Mercer, tearing at her abdomen, blood pooling everywhere. With a hoarse yell Mercer kicks back, trying to throw Riegle off, but she’s got her fingers dug in –

Without thinking York launches himself forward, into Riegle; they tumble further into the room, Riegle hissing as York’s full weight pins her to the ground. “Stop it!” he shouts at her, uselessly, trying to grab her flailing limbs. Riegle’s face is contorted, blood-spattered, teeth bared. “Stop!”

She headbutts him.

It doesn’t hurt, but the force of it snaps York’s head back, and there’s a spray of blood across his visor. In that split second of shock she knees him in the gut, and York grunts but doesn’t pull back, just grabs her wrists and pushes his leg into her chest.

Through the blood on his visor, York sees Riegel grin up at him. She split her forehead when she headbutted him; there’s crimson running down her face, into her smile, staining her teeth.

 _On your left,_ snaps D.

“I got this!” yells McGlyn, and before York can react McGlyn's slammed into him, knocking York off of Riegle, knife in hand and raised to strike –

York grabs at him, at his knife hand, and McGlyn grunts and tries to pull away, overbalancing them so they both fall over. Riegle scrambles out of the way, kicks McGlyn in the face – his head jerks back, blood gushing over his upper lip.

“York, get down!” yells Tex, and York looks over to see she’s got her gun aimed with both hands. “McGlyn, get out of the way, or I swear –” Mercer’s on the ground, shaking in a pool of her own blood, hands pressed to her abdomen.

Riegle has her back pressed up against one of the console supports; McGlyn lunges towards her, expression wild, and York’s stomach sinks. “Fuck, Tex, he’s turned too –”

 _Mercer is in imminent danger of bleeding out,_ says D, urgent. _She will die if not attended to soon –_

 _Fuck,_ hisses York. _Fuck fuck fuck –_ He scrambles back to Mercer, puts pressure on her stomach – oh God, yep, that’s intestine, Riegle clawed all the way through – Mercer grunts and chokes, back arching, face bone-white. He can’t see Riegle and McGlyn fighting, but he can hear them, and it sounds like feral dogs – “Tex!”

She’s watching them, gun arm steady, as McGlyn and Riegle continue shredding each other. “What are you waiting for!” shouts York. _D, there’s too much blood, it’s not stopping –_

D hesitates for a split second. _Your armor is equipped with a healing unit._

York’s eye widens and he yanks off his helmet and gloves, starts unbuckling armor. “Captain, just hang in there, a few more seconds, I’ll help you out –”

Her eyes are closed, face tense with pain, blood gurgling out from between the fingers she has clenched over her abdomen. _D, she doesn’t need the full suit, right, just the chestplate?_

_Affirmative._

Tex fires, one shot. Both Riegle and McGlyn fall.

Fingers slippery with blood, York pulls his chestplate off, drapes it over Mercer’s torso. _D, tell me you can run this while I’m not wearing it –_

_Let me see what I can do._

The unit hums and Mercer hisses and stiffens, teeth bared in pain. “Hang in there,” mutters York, “hang on –”

“Donna!” yells Rey, running onto the bridge, and hurtles to his knees beside her. Her eyes crack open, sweat beading her face. “God…”

“We need to take her to the infirmary,” says York.

Suddenly Tex is there, bending down and scooping Mercer up in her arms. York stands up with Tex, making sure the healing unit is still covering her injury. They leave the bridge a hurried, awkward procession, Rey hurrying along with them – of course, the medbay would be about as far from the bridge as possible –

 _Seven o’clock, low!_ says D.

Blindly York turns and kicks and his foot meets flesh, sending Burton sprawling on the ground. York is suddenly vividly, horribly aware that his chest and head are completely unprotected. “Go on, I got this!” he yells to Tex and Rey.

_They are not stopping._

He doesn’t have a gun. He doesn’t have his powered gloves. McGlyn's knife is on the floor of the bridge. But Burton is completely unarmed, clad only in a jumpsuit, and as she stays cowered on the floor suddenly York wonders if D was wrong, if she wasn’t hostile… “Burton?”

Her narrow shoulders rise and fall, long black braids draped almost to the floor. Tex and Rey’s footsteps have faded, and it’s very quiet here in the officer quarter’s hallway. Down and to York’s left, a door cracks open, and York sees Yakimoto standing there pale and wide-eyed. Silently, York brings a finger to his lips, and she nods. “Hey, Burton.” What was her first name? “Jaina. You okay?” Ignoring D’s warning, York sinks into a crouch, reaches a hand out to her. “Sorry I kicked you.”

She doesn’t speak, just clutches her stomach and winces. _York,_ says D. _I would not recommend –_

With a ringing scream, Burton whips around, braids flying, face stretched in an inhuman howl. York throws an arm up but it barely blocks her as she throws her entire body into his, and as York is flung backwards there’s a dull thud as his head connects with the metal floor –


	6. We didn’t cause this

Groaning, York becomes aware that his head hurts. Not stabbingly so. Just a flat, pervasive pain. _D…?_

_You are all right._

It’s strange to hear reassurance, but he’s not complaining. _Concussion…?_

_Yes. Luckily, there was no major brain damage._

York becomes aware of the light filtering through his closed eyelid. It’s dim and cool. Cautiously, he opens his eyes, and though it’s enough to make him wince the lights are not as bright as he feared. Looking around, York recognizes where he is – the medbay.

Mercer is laid out on the cot opposite from him, eyes closed, still pale and sweaty, an IV running into her arm. Beside her sits Rey, elbows on his knees, head resting in his interlaced hands. “Is… is she?” croaks York.

At the sound of his voice, Rey’s head snaps up. “Oh,” he says, hoarse. There’s circles under his eyes. “You’re awake.”

York nods at Mercer, and then regrets it. “How is she…?”

“Asleep.” Rey gets to his feet, hands in his pockets. “You saved her life.”

He can’t quite help the grimace on his face, but hopes it just comes across as pain. “It’s not a big deal.”

Rey snorts, a small, weary sound. “You don’t mean that.”

York’s too drained to do more than shrug a little. “Where’s T – Private Church?”

“Sweeping the ship. Do you want to talk to her?”

He doesn’t want to talk, but he wants Tex there. “Yeah.”

“Ship?”

When she answers, her voice is so different from its usual chipper tone that York barely recognizes her. “Yes, Officer Rey?”

“Ask Private Church to come to the medbay, please?”

“Yes, Officer Rey.”

_Is… is she all right?_

_That is difficult to fully ascertain._ On the surface, D keeps his impassive tone, but York can detect the worry beneath it now. _But it does not seem likely. Ship, like so many other ship AI, has been programmed to feel loyalty and protectiveness for her crew. Now six of them are dead._

 _Jesus,_ sighs York. _Can you… can you talk to her about it?_

 _She is… unwilling to talk to me right now._ D sounds faintly regretful. _She views us, and Agent Texas, as intruders responsible for these deaths._

York’s never been on a ship with an AI that hated him, but he’s heard horror stories. _Shit, well, we have to change that._

_You can try._

“Hey.” Tex steps into the medbay. “How’s your head?”

York shrugs. “It hurts.”

“Yeah, you banged yourself up pretty good.” Tex takes off her helmet, nods to Rey. “Everything’s clear. Yakimoto’s keeping an eye on navigation. I’ve told her to stay in her room otherwise unless it’s an emergency.”

Rey nods back, dour-faced. “Thank you.”

Shrugging, Tex seats herself on the side of York’s cot. “We should be out of slipspace in three weeks.” Her eyes flicker to Mercer’s still face and back. “Think she’ll make it that long?”

With a shaky exhale, Rey drops his head back into his hands. “I don’t know.”

The expression on Tex’s face looks like she’s figuring out sympathy for the first time. “She’s tough,” says Tex, haltingly. “She’ll… pull through.”

Rey, head still bowed, does not dignify this feeble attempt with a response. York can’t help the tiny little snort that escapes him. Turning to him, Tex mouths, _What?_

He shakes his head, a tiny movement, whispers, “I’ll tell you later.” _D, tell her about Ship._

_She is aware._

“What happened?” asks York. “After I was knocked out. Is Burton…?”

“Dead.” Tex’s voice is matter-of-fact, like she’s describing what they ate last night. “Yakimoto kicked her off of you and called for help. Nearly got attacked herself, but she had Jimémez’s taser. Then Rey took my gun and shot Burton.”

“There, see?” York looks over at Rey, who is watching Tex with hollow eyes. “We’re even.”

\--

Eventually Tex and Rey both have to leave; though most of the gore has been cleaned up, there’s more to be done. Forms to fill out, Rey says.

York elects to stay in the medbay, for now. His head still swims when he tries to sit up, and he wants to keep an eye on Mercer. Tex has promised to come and check on him every hour, too, and D’s watching out for him, and despite everything York feels more connected than he has in days.

At one point Mercer wakes, eyes cracking open. Wincing, she tries to sit up, only to fall back against the thin mattress with a groan and a hand pressed to her stomach. “Fuck,” she says. Turning her head, her eyes fall on York. “Oh. You’re here too.”

“Yeah. Got knocked in the melon. Hurts like a bitch.” Actually, it’s not that bad. “How are you…?”

Mercer snorts, and for a single sound it conveys her meaning very eloquently. “Yeah,” says York letting his head fall back, and staring up at the ceiling. “I get what you mean.”

For a while, there is silence between them. D is present, and listening, though with nothing to input at the moment; his presence is comforting all the same.

“Private Church called you ‘York’ during the fight,” says Mercer. York looks over at her in alarm; there’s no accusation or alarm in her expression, just weary acceptance. “Is that also a nickname?”

“Yeah, uh… I’m from New York,” he says lamely.

“That’s some pretty heavy-duty medical tech you’ve got too.” Her hazel eyes are fixed on his. When York doesn’t respond, she continues quietly, “I know you’re not who you say you are. I believe you’re ex-military, at least. But I don’t think you’re trying to get home. I don’t think you’ve told me everything.”

He doesn’t see a lot of point in denying it. “Uh… yeah. We haven’t.”

There’s a cold fire in her gaze suddenly. “Did you bring this on us? On my ship?”

“I – no!” protests York. “It was Jonson, he was patient zero –”

Looking grimly unconvinced, Mercer lies back on her cot. “If I die,” she promises, “I’m taking you with me.”

D is suddenly very, very present. _No,_ he says, cold and crystalline, raising the hairs on York’s neck. _That will not happen._

“That’s… fair.” York is starting to feel clammy again, and faintly lightheaded. “I hope you don’t die.”

Mercer snorts again, eyes closing, face drawn with pain. “Neither do I.”

\--

At some point, he falls asleep. D wakes him every hour, briefly, lets him fall back asleep. But at one point, York awakes to whispered voices. _Be still,_ says D. _Pretend to be asleep._

_Why?_

_Listen._

“There’s no way we survive this, Donna,” Rey is saying quietly. “You know that. We both know that. We can’t win.”

“Are you really giving up that easily?” hisses Mercer. “No fight, nothing?”

There’s a pause. “I think this ship has seen enough fighting, don’t you?” he responds sadly.

York, taking care to keep his breathing deep and even, cracks open his good eye. Rey is sitting on Mercer’s cot, and she’s propped up on pillows facing him. He has one of her hands in both of his. It’s dark, too dark for him to make out their expressions. “I’m not giving up my ship,” says Mercer.

“You already lost it.”

“No, not while there’s life in those engines, not while I’m here –”

Rey sighs. “I know.”

“Listen to me,” says Mercer, voice rock hard. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Don’t do it. Not while there’s still a chance.”

“I’d rather die than become that. I’d rather die than hurt _you._ ”

“ _Vogel_ ,” she says, with a strange, soft combination of disgust and affection. “How the hell did you end up here?”

“I ask myself that every day,” he mutters.

They’re quiet again for a long while, so much so that York nearly dozes off again. “Vogel,” says Mercer again, so softly that York barely catches it. “Don’t do it.”

“I can’t make that promise.”

“Well, at least wait until I’m gone before you swallow a bullet, yeah?” she bursts out, suddenly harsh. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You should sleep,” says Rey quietly.

“So should you.”

Fabric rustles, feet touch the floor. There’s footsteps, and then the doors close. Peeking through his eyelashes, York sees Mercer lying flat down again, face turned up towards the ceiling. He can’t tell if she’s asleep or not.

Sighing, York closes his eyes and rolls over onto his side. His head aches, a low, repeated pulse. _D…_

_I can do nothing without the healing unit._

_Could you do that – that brain-wave thing, again?_

D hums, a deep frequency that reverberates softly in York’s bones. Keeping his breathing slow and relaxed, York lets go and falls away into nothingness.

\--

When York wakes in the morning, for good, he feels strangely cold and slow, as if he’s submerged in icy gelatin. _I, uh… I think the anti-virals have stopped working._

D is at his most mechanic and reserved. _That would appear to be the case._

Groaning, York gets out of bed, the tiled floor cold on his bare feet. His armor is in a neat pile in the corner, and he walks over and begins dressing. Mercer is asleep in her cot; there’s marginally more color in her face.

It’s not until York puts his helmet on, D sliding back into the neural interface of the suit with a warm lighting-up of circuits, that the realization hits York. _D,_ he says, throat tight. _If I die – you get erased, don’t you?_

D freezes, all processes stopping. _I believe that is the protocol._

The feeling growing inside York is like there’s a small animal curled up in his hands, fragile, needing protection. _D, I don’t want you to die._

 _I am not ready to go yet, either._ His tone is indecipherable. _Not yet._

 _Can you… can you go with Tex?_ She’s already got one AI, but Carolina had room for two. And they’re all fragments, anyway, right? So theoretically…

 _I could,_ says D cautiously. _But my chip would need to be removed before your death._

York swallows hard at the thought of D out of his head, _gone._ At that cold empty spot. _Well, let’s see what happens first._

\--

He finds Tex up on the bridge, in the pilot’s seat, her helmet off and heels propped up on the console. She has an apple in her hand; she’s not eating it, just staring at it and turning it between her fingers. “Hey,” says York, taking his own helmet off, and drops into the navigator’s seat.

“Hey.” She looks him over, eyebrows lowered in concern. “How’re you feeling?”

York shrugs.

She sighs, exasperated and somehow fond. “Delta?”

“Agent York is experiencing symptoms of a slowed metabolism, including lack of energy and a lower body temperature,” says D, popping up on York’s shoulder. “Reaction time is increased. Mental faculties remain mostly unimpaired.”

Lower lip caught in her teeth, Tex nods. Her eyes are fixed on York’s face, searching; for what, he can only guess. Signs of his impending demise, probably. “All right,” she finally says, softly, and turns back to the front of the room and the black expanse of slipspace in front of her. The apple in her hand is vivid yellow-green, almost as bright as D, the only other color in the room.

“Where’d you get an apple?” York blurts. “Thought they were all eaten.”

“Riegle had a stash.”

As she continues to turn the fruit over in her hand, York sees there’s a chunk bitten out of it. “I thought you couldn’t eat food.”

“I can’t.” Tex stares down at the apple like she can absorb it with sheer force of will. “I still try sometimes, you know? Just to taste it. But even that doesn’t work.” She laughs suddenly, flat and bitter. “The Director gave me a body with a cunt but I can’t taste apples.”

Sadness rises up in York, a kind he’s never experienced before – there’s no heartbreak, no disappointment, no self-pity, just a deep and painful sympathy for _Tex,_ everything she is and everything she isn’t. But his brain feels too slow and heavy to put that into words, so he just kind of sits there, holding one knee up to his chest, good eye prickling with tears. 

“You’re staring, York,” says Tex, eyebrows raised.

He grunts “Sorry,” and looks away, down at the console. He tries not to look at slipspace too long; that much flat black gives him the creeps.

“How are _you_ doing, Delta?”

“I am functioning at optimum parameters, thank you.”

Tex snorts, gaze turned out onto slipspace again. “Of course you are.”

\--

For a little while, it looks as if Mercer will pull through. Until it doesn’t.

“The antibacterials just aren’t working,” says Yakimoto, low and worried, outside of the medbay. “I thought the infection was going down, but…”

But it’s clearly not. York caught a whiff when Rey was changing the bandages. It stank of corruption a mile away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Yakimoto admits. Her eyes are wide and dark, and afraid.

Arms crossed and head bows, Tex sighs. “How much medication do we have left?”

“Enough, but, if it’s not making any difference now…”

They all look over through the window at Mercer, lying still on her cot, damp with sweat. With the fever she’s running she ought to be flushed red, but she’s almost as pale as her sheets.

There’s a funny twisting feeling in York’s guts, like an iron hand has gripped them tight. “She’s not going to make it to Ballast.”

“Yes, she is,” says Rey, hoarse. He’s not standing with them, but leaning against the wall a few feet away. “She’s tough.”

“She’s dying,” Tex responds, not without sympathy.

There’s a brief flash of anger in Rey’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. But he doesn’t have a response.

“Can we… is there somewhere we can stop earlier?” says Yakimoto, eyes darting from Tex to York. “Before we get to Ballast?”

Tex says, grim, “I don’t know enough about piloting or where we are to risk leaving slipspace without coordinates. I can get us to Ballast, with Ship’s help. But that’s it.”

 _And mine,_ interjects D, quietly.

One hand over her mouth, Yakimoto makes a sound that might be a whimper as she gazes at Mercer. “I just… _how,_ ” she says, eyes filling with tears. “How did this happen…”

Hesitantly, York rests a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“How come the two of _you_ are still okay!” she bursts out, throwing him off and wheeling towards him and Tex. “You’re not even sick!”

“Actually,” says York, quietly, “I am.”

She stares up at him, lip trembling furiously. “I’m checking the engine,” she announces, and turns on her heel. “It’d really suck if the engines suddenly died now, wouldn’t it?”

The loud stamping of her boots continues all the way through the cargo bay and up the stairs, and then over their heads as she reaches the engine room. There’s a loud clanging of metal as she slams the door shut.

“Well,” sighs Tex.

Jaw set, eyes burning, Rey pushes past her and into the medbay, seating himself next to Mercer. The back of his head and shoulders look like they’ve been cast in metal.

 _Judging by the symptoms,_ says D, in York and Tex’s heads, _Captain Mercer has an eighty-four point nine percent chance of dying in the next two days. She was already weakened by loss of blood, and there may be complications from the virus that is undoubtedly in her body._

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Tex turns around, heads back to their quarters. Each footfall sounds as heavy as iron, and there’s a bow to her posture that York hasn’t seen before.

“This isn’t our fault,” he says, matching her pace, as much to reassure himself as anything else. “We didn’t cause this.”

Tex doesn’t respond. She reaches their room a step before York does; before he can follow her in she’s shut the door in his face.

\--

Mercer does not wake from her fever; her temperature climbs higher and higher as her pulse becomes weaker and weaker. Rey stays at her side, ignoring Yakimoto’s attempts to persuade him to eat.

At 1936 ship time, there’s a knock on York’s door. Tex is already on her feet and opens it to reveal Rey, standing rigid and grey-faced, eyes rimmed in red.

 _Ship confirms that Mercer is deceased,_ says D, softly.

“Your pistol,” Rey says, voice like gravel, and holds his hand out to Tex. “Please.”

She’s got her helmet on, York can’t see her face. But he recognizes how she pulls her shoulders back, her legs together. “Why?”

“You know why.”

York looks down at his bag, at the M6 he retrieved from Mercer’s quarters peeking out from his clothes. He feels sick to his very stomach, to the soles of his feet. He’s shivering.

“I can’t do that.” Tex does not give an inch.

“Why not?” cries Rey, hoarse, slamming his hand into the doorframe. “I’m going to die anyway, we both know that! Let me do it with dignity!”

“No.”

“Look me in the eye, goddammit!”

For a minute, it’s a tableau in front of York – Tex standing straight and still, staring down Rey, who's hanging onto the doorframe with his chest rising and falling and fierce desperation etched on his face. Then she reaches up and pulls her helmet off, freeing her hair with a little shake, holding the helmet against her chest.

Even with how fuzzy he’s feeling, York sees it – the narrowing of Rey’s eyes, his sudden intake of breath, as he sees her face this close for the first time. “You’re not human.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Rey looks over at York, huddled on his bunk, very human and very miserable. “Please,” he begs, ragged. “You know – you understand –”

York’s swallow sticks in his throat. “I – I’m sorry…” he says, numb.

 _I am concerned,_ says D quietly, as Rey’s burning gaze does not waver from York, _that he may attempt to do something desperate._

“Hey,” says Tex, and Rey turns back to her. “Don’t make decisions like this right now. Take time to think –”

“I’ve been thinking about this for _days,_ ” he hisses. “Don’t presume that I haven’t put more thought into this than… than…” His cheeks are dry, but there’s sweat gathering on his forehead, hair falling into his eyes. “Please,” says Rey again, barely louder than a whisper.

Tex shakes her head, sympathetic but unyielding. “No.”

For a moment longer, Rey glares at her; when Tex’s expression and stance don’t change he lurches off of the doorway, back into the hallway. “Fine.”

Something doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right. York props his swimming head on his fists and closes his eyes. _D, I don’t… I’m…_

 _York,_ says D, sharp. _Do not lose focus._

 _I don’t trust Rey. We should – we should stop him,_ York manages, rallying.

_Agreed._

There’s the sound of footsteps; York forces his eyes open to see Rey heading back unsteadily. “Tex…” he croaks.

“I know.” She pauses with her hand on the doorframe. “Ship?”

“Yes, Private Church?” says Ship, icy. “Or should I refer to you as Agent Texas?”

“Agent Texas, please.” Tex keeps her tone determinedly pleasant. “I’m concerned Officer Rey will attempt to hurt or kill himself. Could you keep an eye on him?”

“Of course.” There’s a pause, and she adds, snippy, “Not that it would do any good.”

“Ship,” says Tex, softly. “Don’t say that.”

Ringing silence follows her words. Sighing, Tex steps away and closes the door, but remains staring at it, a hard set to her jaw. “He won’t do anything, right?” she says. “He’ll take time to think it over –”

“Agent Texas,” interrupts Ship. “Officer Rey is opening an airlock. He is not wearing a spacesuit.”

_Fuck._

Tex is already out the door and running, and York jumps to his feet, sprinting after her, adrenaline burning through the lethargy. Through the medbay (by Mercer’s body lying cold on the cot), into the cargo bay, where Rey is stepping through the first set of airlock doors –

“Stop!” yells Tex, charging forward, but she’s not fast enough – the doors are closed by the time she reaches them. York catches up as she’s pounding on the button to open the doors, but –

“Airlock depressurization has begun,” says Ship. “Inner doors are now locked.”

“Rey!” Tex pounds on the doors; York can see the back of Rey’s head through the glass panel. “Rey, stop!” She draws her fist back to punch through the glass.

“I would not do that, Agent Texas.” D pops up on his shoulder, urgent. “You will endanger Agent York.”

Tex looks over at York, eyes wide in a white face. York, who’s not wearing his helmet.

At that moment, the outer doors open onto the void. For a brief second, Rey’s form is unchanged. Then he burns white, so bright it sears York’s vision, and then he’s gone.


	7. I cannot do that, Agent York

York goes to the dining area at D’s insistence, digs a protein bar out of the cabinets without paying attention to the flavor. Everything tastes like cardboard anyway.

As he’s sitting there, though, forcing himself to chew and swallow, Yakimoto enters. York ignores her as she looks through storage lockers, heats up a meal. Not until she walks over to him does he look up. “Can I sit with you?” she asks, sullen.

York nods, swallows. “I thought you hated me.”

Shrugging, Yakimoto sits down on the bench next to him. Her meal is fairly innocuous, chicken and vegetables, but the smell of it is making York’s stomach turn. “I just don’t want to be alone,” she says.

He can understand that.

Understand it a little too well, really; his gut twists unpleasantly and he puts down the protein bar. _D?_

_Yes, York?_

_If I’m gonna die, don’t – don’t leave me until it’s a hundred percent sure I’m a goner, okay? I don’t want –_ He has to stop, swallow down his words. _I don’t want to die alone._

 _All right,_ says D cautiously.

 _I mean, after that, please go with Tex, I don’t want you to die either, you should – you should keep going._ York’s not sure how to say what he means, other than it’s not fair that D has to die just if he does. _Okay? If I die, go with Tex._

He waits for an answer. But D’s not responding and it’s making York increasingly nervous. _I’m serious, all right? You have to promise me – D, you have to promise –_

_Do not leave you until it is absolutely necessary._

_Yeah, and then – and then go with Tex. Go survive._

_I will remember that,_ says D quietly.

York thinks it’s a promise. He’s vaguely aware of Yakimoto at his side, picking morosely at her meal. _Thanks._

_Of course._

\--

Around 1600, York starts getting restless, starts pacing through the ship. _Adrenaline and testosterone levels are rising,_ D rattles off. _Violent breakdown may be imminent._

 _Well, do something about it, then,_ growls York, stalking through the upper hallway.

_There are sedatives in the medbay, but I cannot administer them for you._

Taking a deep breath, York closes his eyes, wills himself to calm down. If he has to drug himself, he will, but… _Can’t you do something in my brain?_

D hesitates for a long time before responding. _I could try, but the chances of causing permanent damage would be… high. The healing unit is still combating the virus as best it can. Beyond that I am not sure what I can do, without taking more drastic measures._

Opening his eyes, York realizes the door to the bridge is open and Tex is there, watching him. “Hey,” she says. “You all right?”

Shaking his head, York walks in, puts his helmet down on the navigator’s chair. “It’s getting worse.”

Tex isn’t wearing her helmet either; she looks up at him, inscrutable. “We’ll make it.”

“Yeah.”

The lights go out.

For an incredibly long heartbeat, they’re suspended in pure darkness. Then the emergency lighting flickers to life, the dim glow revealing Tex’s tense expression. “What was that?” she says.

York feels suddenly, unbearably alert, compared to lethargy of the past week. “Ship?”

“Yes, Agent York?”

“Report! What happened?”

“There is nothing to report, Agent York.”

Tex is on her feet, helmet on and pistol drawn. York picks his helmet up too. “So the lights being off isn’t a problem.”

“Correct, Agent York. There is no problem.”

“Fuck,” hisses York, putting his helmet on. “Fuck fuck fuck –”

“I do not think Ship is willing to help us,” says D, appearing over York’s shoulder. He has his little gun drawn as well. “She may not be able to directly harm us, but…”

“But she can make it easier for whoever else is,” says Tex. “Which means…”

“ _Yakimoto,_ ” growls York.

“She has the engine key,” says Tex grimly. “If she decides to take the engines down, or take out life support…”

York’s already opening the door, out into the darkened ship. “Yakimoto!” he yells, his voice echoing dimly outside the confines of his helmet. “Come out here!”

“ _York._ ” Tex follows him out into the hallway. “Hang on –”

“She’s probably in the cargo hold, that’s where Jonson hid, right?” York’s burning like a live wire, he’s not waiting for Tex, he throws himself down the ladder to the cargo bay and as he does so the trapdoor closes over his head –

York freezes, hanging onto the ladder in almost darkness. _D, was that…?_

“York!” yells Tex, muffled, and there’s pounding on trapdoor. “Open the door!”

He heaves his shoulder against it, but the door refuses to budge. “I can’t! Why’d you close it?”

“I didn’t! Why did you?”

“I didn’t close it either!”

“You were incorrect, Agent York, in assuming I wished you harm,” says Ship, in his ear, and York jumps and nearly falls off the ladder. “I have no feelings about you. My directive is to keep Engineer Yakimoto safe.”

Pulse pounding, breath caught in his throat, York regains his grip and holds still. “Tex?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Ship closed the door.”

He waits in the dark, in silence. _Texas says to keep looking for Yakimoto. She’ll sweep upstairs,_ D tells him.

 _Right._ York climbs down the ladder, steps into the cargo bay. Even with the emergency glow, he can barely make out anything beyond shadowy shapes; he turns his night vision on. At the same time, there’s a clunking of metal as the doors to the medbay (and thus rest of the ship) slide shut.

Okay. That’s not ominous at all, or anything. Totally not terrifying to think Ship could just open the airlock and send York flying out into slipspace to vanish in a burst of radiation –

 _Ship cannot directly cause you harm in any way,_ says D. _It is part of all ship AI protocol._

_Thank God._

There’s no movement in the cargo bay. York switches to heat vision, slowly scanning for Yakimoto. His heart is pounding so loud he’s sure he can hear as well as feel it; at any movement he’s ready to turn, to strike. It’s not fear. It’s something other.

There’s a shuddering hum, and then a lack of noise. York stops in his tracks, scanning frantically around him. _What the fuck was –_

_Life support has been shut off. Do not remove your helmet. You have approximately fifteen minutes of breathable oxygen left._

And now it _is_ fear, running so icy-cold through York’s veins he already feels like he can’t breathe. _But you said – you said Ship couldn’t harm us –_ “Ship!” he shouts.

_Do not waste oxygen._

“Yes, Agent York?”

“Did you do that?”

“I am not doing anything, Agent York. Engineer Yakimoto is responsible for any changes to the ship’s operation.”

“But – she’s shutting you down, Ship! Why are you protecting her?” If life support’s down Yakimoto must be in the engine room, and York takes two steps towards the doors before remembering they’re shut. “If you die, then she dies!”

“I cannot let you kill her.” Is York imagining it, or is there a tremor to Ship’s voice?

_Fourteen minutes left._

York knows he shouldn’t panic, panicking is the worst thing possible, he’ll hyperventilate and use up his air even quicker, but it’s a damn hard thing to keep a cool head when his lifespan is being listed in minutes. “Ship, if we all die, you’ll be stuck in slipspace forever –”

“I cannot let you kill Engineer Yakimoto,” she repeats, and there’s definite audio distortion in her voice. “I am supposed to protect her, I was supposed to protect my captain, I was supposed to protect my crew –”

“Ship,” says D quietly. “At no point did you fail in your duties.”

Scanning his surroundings, York paces through the cargo room, searching, on the off chance that Yakimoto’s here, but… nothing. He reaches the doors, pushes the button to open them in futile and frantic hope.

_Thirteen minutes left._

_Where’s Tex?_

_Upstairs. Ship has her trapped in the corridor._

“I’m sorry,” York yells up at the ceiling, spinning around from the doors, pulse thudding in his temples. “I’m sorry your crew’s dead, okay? But we didn’t mean for this to happen, we didn’t cause any of this, it’s not our _fault –”_

“You intend to kill Engineer Yakimoto.”

“Only if she presents a clear and present threat,” D says.

“We’re trying to help!” York kicks the door in frustration. “Goddammit, I don’t want anyone to die, okay, I hate it, but I want to fucking live –”

_Twelve minutes._

“I cannot let you harm Engineer Yakimoto.”

“She’s turned off life support!” York roars. “She’s killing herself anyway!”

_Agent Texas is attempting to physically dismantle the door. She may succeed in time._

“I cannot let you harm her,” Ship says again, but her voice is becoming increasingly glitchy and distorted. “I cannot let you harm my crew –”

York pounds the button to open the doors again. Stupid – fucking – doors –

Wait.

Switching his HUD back to night vision, York digs his lockpicking tools out of his belt.

_Eleven minutes left._

_D, you gotta help me with this, if Ship tries to fight back –_

_I am here._

His hands are shaking so bad from the adrenaline he can barely get the panel open, but he does, and then York has to take a deep breath and really focus. _Yakimoto has the engine key,_ says D. _That could give me access to the computer, and to Ship._

Tongue between his teeth, York keeps working, acutely conscious of every breath that leaves his lungs. _Could you… shut her down?_

_Potentially. I am only a fragment. Ten minutes left._

Lights on the door panel blink red, and the doors slide open with a hiss. York narrowly refrains from crowing in triumph as he leaps through into the medbay and common area, towards the stairs to the aft passage. He’s halfway across the room when he hears a sudden crackling, catches a glimpse of sparking white light –

_Nine minutes left._

_Shit,_ hisses York, ducking behind a bulkhead. It’s Yakimoto, taser in hand, slowly stalking through the room. Her mohawk hangs lank and unkempt down the side of her face. York’s not sure, but it looks like she’s bleeding from a split lip.

_The taser contains enough volts to short-circuit your armor. With non-functional armor, your amount of breathable air reduces to two-point-five minutes._

_Fuck fuck_ fuck. _So we need to get past her and turn life-support back on._

_We need the key to turn life support back on._

York snarls in reflexive exasperation. Though she shouldn’t be able to hear him, Yakimoto’s head whips in his direction.

_Eight minutes left._

_D, gonna need you firing on all cylinders here._

_Noted._

Taking a (not too) deep breath, York launches out of hiding and throws himself at Yakimoto, aiming for her back.

She shrieks as they collide and tumble to the floor, all five hundred pounds of York and armor landing full on top of her. Teeth bared, she scrabbles at York as he pins her wrist to the ground, squeezing until she lets go of the taser –

Her hips snap up and back, hitting York in the groin. He groans, but refuses to let go of her –

_Seven minutes left._

“Give me the key!” York shouts at her, moving his other hand to the back of her neck, keeping his grasp on her wrist. She laughs, a hyena-like cackle, bucks underneath him again. York grunts and pushes more of his weight into her back. “Give it to me, goddammit!”

 _She’s wearing a necklace. Check it,_ says D.

Sure enough, there’s a thin chain under York’s hand, and he wraps his fingers in it and _yanks._ Yakimoto chokes and hisses, but the chain snaps, and he gathers it into his hand – dog tags, a small jade charm, and a black card with a USB chip.

“Ha!” shouts York, grabbing the chip in one hand and pulling the rest of the chain off with the other. “Got it –”

_Watch the taser!_

York lunges but is a second too late, Yakimoto’s grabbed it and flipped the switch on and pressed it to his wrist –

It _hurts,_ it’s like fire leaping through him, and York yells in pain but somehow breaks free, elbows her face into the floor. There’s a horrible crunch and he leaps to his feet, racing towards the stairs, key clutched in one hand. _Fuck fuck fuck, it hurts, everything hurts –_

_Six minutes left._

Up the stairs, racing away from the sound of footsteps and gurgling behind him, into the aft passage. There it is, the engine room, and –

The doors slam shut.

“Ship!” roars York, hurling himself against the doors. “Ship, open these doors right now, I order you –”

“I cannot let you harm Engineer Yakimoto –”

“I’m not harming her, I’m saving her life, you stupid computer!”

_Five minutes left._

Yakimoto’s reached the top of the stairs, taser still in hand, blood streaming down her mouth and chin from a smashed nose. Gathering herself up, she lunges forward, and York prepares to punch her in the face –

The doors open and York nearly falls into the engine room. “Shut the doors!” he shouts, catching his balance. “Now –”

Yakimoto throws herself into the gap of the closing doors, hands gripping the rubber edges like claws. Muscles ripple in her arms as she forces herself through, doors snapping shut behind her –

There’s a terminal in the back corner. York runs for it, jams the key in its slot –

_Six o’clock!_

York whirls and punches, sending Yakimoto staggering back, the taser clattering to the floor. His breath rasps thin in his throat, lungs heaving for more air –

_Four minutes left._

The screen lights up with console commands, and York curses again, he’s always been shit with computers. “Ship, turn life support on!”

“I cannot do that, Agent York.”

“I got the damn key, what more do you want –”

 _Behind you, behind you!_ snaps D.

York spins around again but he’s dizzy with lack of air, he staggers, and Yakimoto’s on him, screaming in his face as she tackles him and claws his helmet off –

Instinctively York gulps in air as they both fall to the ground, his helmet rolling away. Yakimoto’s on top of him but her grip is faltering, she’s gasping for breath too, blood dripping off her face and into York’s. Shoving her off, York grabs onto the console and hauls himself up, sees the bright red warning over the screen –

 _Warning,_ D echoes. _Oxygen levels at zero percent._

 _D, what do I – what do I press –_ His vision is blurring.

A strange cold energy runs through York’s arm and suddenly it’s moving of its own accord. York sways and holds onto the wall, watching himself type commands on the keyboard. His lungs burn, he can’t breathe, he can’t get enough oxygen no matter how much air he sucks in –

 “Life support systems, online,” says Ship, voice flat. “Oxygen levels rising.” The lighting turns back on as well, and York winces in the sudden brightness.

 _D…_ gasps York, still hanging on to stay upright. _Is that… did you…_

_Watch for Yakimoto._

She’s on all fours, sucking in hoarse breaths. York’s chest keeps heaving, drawing in air, he gasps and staggers and gasps again –

_D, where’s – where’s Tex –_

_In the hall, she has torn through one set of doors –_

Yakimoto screams and throws herself at York and he slams an elbow into her chest. She wheezes and drops to the floor, spits blood. _Tex – get to Tex –_ thinks York, wiping blood off his face.

 _Grab the key,_ orders D.

York seizes it and runs, toward the doors – they open for him without prompting. “Tex!” yells York, sprinting down the hallway – he doesn’t know why it’s so important, just that he get to her, he’s burning, he feels too big for his armor, too wild –

With a horrible scraping of metal the doors to the dining area open and Tex falls through, a bright scratch across the front of her armor, pistol in hand. “York, get down!” she yells, and instinctively he crouches and throws himself to the side, into the wall –

There’s a single bang of gunfire, and a yelp from Yakimoto, the sound of her body hitting the floor. Then the only noise is the even whirring of the engines, and York’s unsteady breathing.

He’s still shaking.

“York?” says Tex carefully, crouching beside him. York clenches his fists, staring at the hallway ahead of him. The alarm bells are still ringing in his head, every muscle is tensed to fight, he can barely think beyond the blaring of _DANGER DANGER DANGER_ in his mind –

“York, look at me,” orders Tex, and there’s a hand on his face turning his gaze towards her. York instinctively yells and tries to pull away, but Tex’s grip is like iron, forcing him to look in her eyes. Her expression is android-blank. “It’s starting?”

York opens his mouth to speak, and a raspy snarl rolls off his tongue instead.

Tex’s expression seems to recede and harden. “Okay,” she says. “D, hold him.”

Suddenly York’s body is no longer his own; he’s frozen in place, crouching on the floor, thighs aching, gaze fixed on Tex. He doesn’t know if it’s this or the abject panic at the sound he just made, but his mind feels a little clearer, the anger pushed away by cold fear. “Tex,” he croaks. “Help me…”

“Here’s the thing,” says Tex, her gloves rough against York’s chin. “I can’t fly this ship on my own. I need D to help. But he can’t do that if he’s focusing on holding you back.”

He can’t speak, he can’t think, he can barely breathe. York swallows hard, trembling, and waits for Tex to grab his neck and squeeze…

D is projecting on his shoulder again, emerald in York’s peripheral vision. “Agent Texas,” he says, inflectionless.

Her eyes flick over York’s face, and something in her gaze changes, softens imperceptibly. “I said I wouldn’t let you die, and I mean it.” Underneath the softness her voice is hard, like silk-covered steel. “Okay?”

York tries to nod but can’t, his head held in place by two unstoppable forces. “Okay.”

“Trust me,” she says, and in a sudden movement she leans down and kisses him on the forehead. York barely has time to blink before Tex is gone, hurtling down the stairs, while he crouches frozen in the hallway.

“D,” he says. There’s enough oxygen in the air, but he still feels like he can’t take a breath. The frenzied rage is trembling at the edges of his perception, waiting to spill over. “D, I don’t wanna die.”

“You are not going to die.”

Heart thudding, York closes his eyes and tries to calm himself. He’ll be all right. He’ll be okay. Tex will fix things.

She’s back, something white and plastic in her hands. “D, give me the key.”

It’s the strangest and scariest thing York has ever felt, his body moving of its own volition. He stands, hands the engine key over to Tex. “Where’s your helmet?” she asks. 

“In there,” says York.

“Okay, go get it. Then get to the bridge.”

D obeys. As York steps onto the bridge, helmet in hands, he sees Tex seated cross-legged on the floor, opening the packet in her hands. There’s a syringe and several vials. _Oh,_ thinks York, numb, as D walks him over and sits him down across from Tex. _I get it._

“Lie down.”

D lays York down with his head in Tex’s lap; York’s not entirely sure how he feels about this, but given everything he doesn’t think he minds. Leaning over, Tex pulls off his left glove and bracer, rolls the sleeve of his undersuit up to expose the inside of York’s elbow. “You’ll be out all the way to Ballast,” says Tex. “Okay?”

It’s… it’s not okay. It is the furthest thing from okay. But York knows he doesn’t have a choice. “Yeah.”

There’s a sharp pinch in the skin of his inner arm and York winces, closing his eyes.  It doesn’t take long for the drugs to kick in; within seconds he can feel it slowing down his system, turning everything to sludge…

Sighing, he opens his eyes, taking a second to bring Tex into focus. His limbs are weighted down like they’re filled with sand, and York feels strangely lost and disconnected. “Tex?” 

Her fingers tap against the side of his face, lightly. “Right here. I’ve got you.”

York’s not sure if it’s because of the angle he’s seeing her from or a mind stilled by drugs, but the pieces click together of why Tex looks so maddeningly familiar. “You look like her,” he slurs.

“Hm?” Her fingers move lightly through his hair.

“Car’lina. Your face. The nose, and the jaw…” York gazes up at Tex, at her familiar, too-perfect face. “Heh, maybe y’re… related…”

Tex freezes, her touch in York’s hair going still. She’s staring off into space, face blank. “Tex?” he says, when her expression doesn’t shift. “M’sorry… know you don’t like bein’ compared t’ people…”

“Hmm?” she says, distant. “No, it’s fine…”

His last sight of her before his vision fades to black is her profile, bright in the dimness of the bridge, gleaming faintly green in D’s light.

\--

Groaning, York opens his eyes, his entire body feeling bloated and slow. “Wha…?”

“Drink this, D says you need water.” Tex’s voice comes from somewhere above him, and plastic is pressed to his lips, cool liquid dribbling in his mouth. York swallows obediently.

_D…_

_I am right here. You are all right._

There’s the bite of a needle at his arm. York wants to protest, he can’t go back under again, he can’t, but before he can form the words he’s already slipping away.

\--

Every so often he wakes, to drink water, maybe stammer out a word or two before Tex drugs him again. Sometimes he drifts partly up to the surface, enough to connect with D, or get a brief glimpse of Tex in the pilot’s chair, or hear murmured conversation, never enough to move or speak before he falls back into unconsciousness.

\--

“– didn’t directly cause them doesn’t mean they’re not my fault. Everyone around me dies.”

“That is statistically untrue,” says D.

Tex growls, metallic. “I’ll never be enough, I’ll never succeed, because that’s what _he_ remembered –”

“You are more than what he made of you. We both are.”

A long, heavy sigh. “I hope so…”

\--

“I don’t understand, Agent Texas. What did I do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, Ship.” Tex sounds sadder than York’s ever heard her. “Okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are my crew and captain dead?”

\--

He can see D, he thinks. A vibrant green glow against a backdrop of endless black. But far, far away, like he’s at the end of an ever-growing tunnel.

\--

 Blackness.

Silence.

The world closes in around him, and he lets himself fall away.


	8. Yeah. I'm sure.

Coming back to awareness feels like clawing out of quicksand. York groans, forces his eyes open; his eyelids feel as heavy as stone. So does the rest of his body.

He’s not wearing armor, he realizes. He’s lying on something soft. The walls around him are white, and there’s _sunlight –_

York blinks, bringing his surroundings into focus. It’s definitely a hospital, but one so much less stark than the ship infirmaries he’s used to. The walls are stuccoed, there’s patterned curtains separating his bed from others, and there’s even a little plant in the window…

_Agent York. It is good to see you awake._

There’s genuine pleasure in D’s voice. _Hey, buddy,_ says York. _Good to see you too._

“Finally,” says Tex warmly, from York’s right. “I thought you were going to sleep all week.”

He looks over at her, head only aching a little; she’s _smiling,_ an honest-to-God, teeth-showing smile that lights up her entire face. “Tex!” says York. “We – we did it? We made it?”

“Yeah, we did it,” she laughs. “We’re on Ballast, in UNSC territory. We got in two days ago and rushed you straight to the hospital. Turns out it’s not an entirely unknown virus, though still pretty rare. Anyway. You’re all fixed up now.”

“Yeah?” York pushes himself up into a seated position; his muscles ache, but he’s had worse, and his mouth is dry. How convenient, there’s a water pitcher and glass on the table beside him. He pours himself a glass, pleased to see his hand only shaking a tiny bit. “What about… what about everyone else?”

Tex looks down at her hands. She’s not wearing armor, just her undersuit with black cargo pants over it. “They’re being returned to their families.”

Swallowing, York nods, sets the glass down on the bedside table, and crosses himself, the movement easy and natural. “What about Ship?”

This time it’s D who answers, in his head. _Ship was deemed unfit to continue serving,_ he says quietly, almost regretfully. _She is scheduled to be wiped, and a new AI installed._

_Oh._

For lack of anything to say, York drinks more water. It’s quiet, in this hospital room; he can hear someone on the other side of the curtains breathing softly, a machine somewhere is beeping rhythmically, and through the windows dimly filters the sound of a living breathing city.

A thought occurs to him. “Are we safe here? From… you know.”

Tex shrugs. “At the moment. They haven’t figured things out yet. I plan to leave before that becomes an issue.”

“Okay.” He can… he can live with that. “As long as we’re not leaving just yet. Still feeling a little rusty.” York rolls his head on his neck, stretching tight muscles. “Fuck, I’m starving. Where’s the cafeteria? They better have a decent one –”

“York –”

“Where’s my clothes?”

“York.”

Tex is leaning towards him, elbows on her knees, strands of sandy hair falling down around her face. “Yeah?” he says.

“Before we left here, you weren’t exactly gung-ho about sticking with me.” Tex is looking directly at him, voice quiet and earnest. “You don’t have to. I’m not forcing you to travel with me.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, there’s no obligation, I don’t expect it, it’s not –”

“I know,” says York again. On impulse, he reaches over and puts his hand on Tex’s shoulder. She starts a little, but doesn’t pull away; if anything, she leans into it a little. “Tex. I’m not leaving any time soon.”

A tiny smile plays around the corners of her mouth, almost wistful. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” There’s a lot to process, York knows, almost two months’ worth of isolation and death. He’s been possessed by his own AI and healed of a mind-bending virus. At some point he realize Tex looks like Carolina and he has no idea what to do with that information yet. But he’s in a bed, a real bed, and the first sunlight he’s seen in two months is streaming through the window, and D is a bright warm point in the back of his mind. “I’m sure.”


End file.
